THE SOVIET ASSASSIN
Allan Leverone
© 2019 by Allan Leverone
Cover design by Elderlemon Design
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, some of which may be based in part on actual names, characters, places and incidents, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is unintended and entirely coincidental.
First eBook edition: 2019
Prologue
January 27, 1988
9:25 a.m.
KGB Headquarters
Lubyanka Square, Moscow
Russia, USSR
KGB Foreign Operations Director Fedya Ilyich crushed his cigar into a brass ashtray with one ham-fisted swipe and glared at his counterpart, Internal Security Director Slava Yakovich.
“There is something I feel you are not understanding, Slava.” Ilyich was trying his best to keep his voice calm but could feel his blood pressure rising.
“And what might that be?”
“It is not as easy as you seem to believe to recruit and train assassins. When we have one we believe in, we like to keep him and utilize him to the utmost extent possible.”
“But there is—”
“I have not finished speaking, Slava,” Ilyich interrupted. He pause to light another cigar as Yakovich waited, closed-mouthed but clearly impatient to speak.
Too bad for you, Ilyich thought. I am your superior, and you will speak when I tell you to speak. He’d considered simply implementing his plan without consulting the internal security director, but knew that to do so would be to invite trouble down the road.
And Fedya Ilyitch was not interested in courting trouble, down the road or anywhere else.
“As I was saying,” Ilyich continued, “the man you know as Piotr Speransky is the best assassin we have in our stable at the current time.”
“I understand he is a competent killer.” Yakovich spoke drily, in the tone of a man who considered himself above discussions regarding people who murdered other people for a living.
“No, Slava, I do not think you understand. Speransky is not just a ‘competent killer.’ He is the finest assassin in our arsenal at present and, I believe, one of the best in the long history of the Soviet intelligence services. I am not interested in losing a man such as this over one mistake.”
“But it was not just one mistake,” Yakovich said. “Speranksy revealed intelligence that permitted a lone CIA operative to execute one of our most accomplished chemical and biological weapons scientists. And not only was Comrade Marinov murdered, he was shot down right here on the streets of Moscow!”
“I am well aware of Speransky’s transgression, Slava.”
“Then you know I simply cannot overlook it in my role as director of internal security. Our people must be held accountable to a standard of excellence. If they are not held accountable when they fail, we inevitably start down a slippery slope.”
“Explain your slippery slope.”
“It is simple. If we do not hold Comrade Speransky accountable, we risk devolving into an organization where covert operatives are free to perform sloppy assignments with impunity. This cannot be allowed to happen. There must be consequences for failure, Fedya, and they must be severe.”
“Of course there must be consequences,” Ilyich agreed. “I am not suggesting a sweeping overhaul of internal policy. I am suggesting nothing of the sort. A typical operative who fails in the manner Speransky did will still face either a lifetime in prison or a pair of Makarov slugs in the skull as punishment. All I am saying is that we must make an exception in Speransky’s case. That is all. One exception. No more and no less.”
Yakovich huffed. “I do not like it. Our program of poisoning American operatives was stopped in its tracks with Comrade Marinov’s execution. What was once a shining success is now in a shambles, probably irretrievably so, all thanks to Comrade Speransky.”
“Again, I am well aware of that, Slava.”
“Then I am sure you understand I cannot abide Speransky getting off scot-free.”
“He will not get off scot-free. I intend to make it crystal clear to Comrade Speransky that he will get one chance at redemption, and one chance only. He will be offered a single assignment in which to restore his position within the organization. If he fails at that assignment, I will not stand in the way of your administering the severest punishment available.”
Yakovich sat back in his chair. He sighed and stroked his beard, lost in thought. “You really like Piotr Speranksy that much?”
“Oh no,” Ilyich answered immediately. “I cannot stand Speransky. He is arrogant and cruel, and worse, he is difficult to work with. He displays a near total disregard for the chain of command and is nearly impossible to control. In fact, I will go one step farther and say I rather fear the man. He exhibits signs of instability, and the less time I must spend in Piotr Speransky’s vicinity, the happier I am.”
“Then, why…?”
“It is simple, Slava. And I already told you why I would go out of my way for Speransky. He is exactly that good at what he does. His value to the KGB makes putting up with his…quirks…worthwhile.”
Yakovich shook his head. “I am still not convinced.”
Ilyich sat silently, smoking his cigar and allowing the truth of the situation to sink into Yakovich’s sometimes obstinate skull: It doesn’t matter if you are convinced, Slava, because I do not need your permission to execute my plan. This meeting is informational only.
Finally Yakovich grunted. “What is this assignment you are proposing? What could possibly be difficult enough—and valuable enough to the KGB—to make up for Speransky’s failure this past week, a failure that occurred practically right under our noses?”
Ilyich smiled. He blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “Let us play a little guessing game, Slava.”
Yakovich blinked in surprise. “A guessing game? I have known you a long time, Fedya, and I have never known you to be a man who enjoyed games.”
“Very true.”
“Then…”
“Humor me.”
“Fine. I will play your guessing game.”
Ilyich’s smile widened. “Alright, then. Say you were a covert assassin, and you had been kidnapped, tortured and humiliated by an American CIA agent, and a female agent at that, practically in the shadow of your own home. What do you suppose would be the one thing you would want more than anything else in the world?”
Yakovich answered instantly. “Vengeance, of course.”
“Of course,” Ilyich said, and fell silent.
Yakovich’s eyes widened. “You are not suggesting…”
“Oh yes I am, Slava. Piotr Speransky will find and execute his tormentor, or he will face the fate you seem to so vehemently desire for him.”
“But how on earth will he find her? She could not possibly still be in Moscow. Undoubtedly the CIA will never allow her near Russia or anywhere else in the Soviet Union, ever again. She is almost certainly sitting behind a desk at Langley in the United States. She will likely never return to the field after an operation as brazen as the one she performed here in Moscow, because the CIA knows how badly we would like to get our hands on her.”
“None of that is
our problem, is it?”
“But…it is an impossible assignment!”
“Again, not our problem. And if your assessment is correct, you may put two bullets into Speransky’s head yourself when he fails, if that is your wish. But I am telling you, Speransky will be highly motivated. And he will either succeed and thereby justify my faith in him, or he will fail and become just another operative never to be heard from again.”
Yakovich stared at his superior. “That is either the craziest or the most brilliant plan I have ever heard. But either way, it is simply impossible.”
“Again,” Ilyich said. “It is not—”
“I know, I know. It is not our problem.”
The smile never left Fedya Ilyich’s face.
1
May 12, 1988
11:35 p.m.
U.S. Embassy
Paris, France
Clayton Leavell bent over his desk, peering at a briefing document prepared by an anonymous U.S. State Department analyst somewhere in the bowels of the Harry S. Truman Building in Washington, D.C.
The information contained within the document was dry and uninteresting, even to a career diplomat like Clayton: a summary of amendments to the intelligence-sharing protocols between the governments of the United States and France. The changes were being proposed by the lame-duck Reagan administration in advance of this November’s upcoming presidential election. The current Republican administration was tightening the rules in the event a Democrat were to win the election and thus occupy the White House at this time next year.
Clayton had seen it all before, every eight years like clockwork. A sitting president was rarely defeated at the end of his first term—although Jimmy Carter had managed to make himself the exception that proved the rule less than ten years ago—but following his second term, when the chances of the rival political party taking the reins of power were much greater, the flurry of changes to diplomatic protocols began.
Whether the party in power was Republican or Democrat made little difference; both approached the potential loss of influence in exactly the same way: by making it as difficult as possible for their opponent to change policy direction after assuming control.
Should a Republican win the 1988 presidential election rather than a Democrat, Clayton knew he would find himself sitting at this very desk in early 1989, poring over a summary briefing reversing many of the very changes he was being instructed to implement now.
He sipped his cognac and sighed. So much of the political process was a game; a chess match designed not so much to advance the interests of the United States as to stymie the opposing political party. And for an ambassador, the whole point of diplomacy was to gain as much intelligence as possible from the host nation while simultaneously giving up as little as possible to them.
It was nothing more than a massive shell game. Even when dealing with France, which along with Great Britain had been among the United States’ most trusted allies for more than a century, Clayton found himself more often than not attempting to trick the French government, dealing in subterfuge and misdirection rather than cooperation.
It was the nature of diplomacy, and he knew the government of France was playing the game in exactly the same way when it came to dealing with him.
Most of the time Clayton relished the challenge.
Sometimes, though—and this was one of those times—it was simply exhausting. Clayton was a family man, and with Rebecca and the kids back in the states he felt unmoored. His wife and children’s impromptu vacation was for the best, given the current situation: two U.S. diplomats killed in the past two weeks under circumstances that were unrelated as far as the world knew.
Clayton knew differently.
Arlene Nevin had been struck and killed by a car two weeks ago. A hit-and-run “accident” on a deserted West German road in which the vehicle that struck Arlene had never been found. Additionally, authorities could come up with no plausible explanation as to what the United States ambassador to West Germany had been doing on a lonely road fifteen kilometers outside West Berlin at three a.m. on a Wednesday night.
It was baffling, and the Reagan administration had voiced its suspicions—that the “accident” may not have been entirely accidental—almost immediately.
Then last week Eldon Wickheiser’s administrative assistant had found the U.S. ambassador to Spain dead inside his own car in the early-morning hours one week to the day after Arlene Nevin’s unexplained death. As with the Nevin situation, there were unanswered questions surrounding Wickheiser’s fatality, not the least of which was what Wickheiser was doing sitting inside his car in the embassy garage in the middle of a weeknight.
Wickheiser’s wife had told authorities she’d gone to bed around ten p.m. and that at that time her husband had been acting normally, watching television and eating a light snack. She’d taken sleeping medication and could not recall whether or not he’d ever come to bed.
Two inexplicable deaths of United States diplomats in separate European nations on successive Wednesday nights one week apart.
As a United States ambassador, Clayton Leavell was privy to information that had thus far been successfully withheld from the media and the public: the two diplomats had been murdered, and their killings were as far from unrelated as it was possible to get.
Evidence recovered at the scene of both deaths suggested strongly that the killings had been committed by the same person, or at least that the same organization had been responsible for both. What was being withheld from the public for the time being was that a note had been recovered at each scene.
Despite Clayton’s status as ambassador to France and a very interested party, he’d not been advised of the notes’ exact contents. What he had been told was that both were brief and cryptic. So cryptic, in fact, investigators had thus far been unable to fully decipher their contents.
While Clayton found that information fascinating from a theoretical point of view, the more important and terrifying fact was that until the crimes were solved, he had to be considered a target, as did every ambassador stationed in Europe. Secretary of State J. Robert Humphries had called him personally five days ago, and in a long conversation told him, in effect, to hunker down.
No trips outside the embassy except on official business, and even then, only accompanied by armed security personnel.
No public appearances of any kind except as necessary to perform official duties.
Basically, he was to make himself a prisoner inside the embassy.
Humphries’ words hadn’t frightened Clayton as much as had his tone. He was somber, and his concern was sincere and obvious.
Clayton had sent Rebecca and the children home by nightfall that day. All the media was told was that his wife and children were taking an extended vacation back in the states, reconnecting with Rebecca’s parents. She had wanted to stay with Clayton, of course, but hadn’t put up much of an argument out of a desire to protect their son and daughter.
And Clayton had been left alone.
That was almost a week ago, and the sad fact of embassy life was that once you removed the ceremonial duties from an ambassador’s schedule—speeches to civic groups, question-and-answer sessions at schools, glad-handing host country politicians—most of the time there wasn’t much actual work of substance to keep a man or woman occupied.
Clayton had been reduced to walking the embassy grounds at all hours of the night and day, giving himself more exercise in the past five days than he’d gotten in probably twenty years. In what he considered a fair display of gallows humor, he’d named these sessions his “Death Marches.” When not occupied by one of his death marches, he forced himself to his desk for extended periods of time spent shuffling official paperwork.
All of which explained his presence here, alone in his office, as the grandfather clock in the corner announced midnight’s arrival with all the rich, deep-throated grandfather-clock pomp and circumstance appropriate to the launch of a new day.
>
It was now Wednesday morning.
The murders of the two U.S. ambassadors had occurred on this day, one week and two weeks prior.
Clayton swallowed heavily, staring at the clock, the minute hand moving ever so slowly past the twelve. He knew he was safe—if isolated and alone—inside the embassy. The security staff was competent and professional.
Still, the compound felt cold and empty without Rebecca and the children.
And undoubtedly Nevin and Wickheiser had felt safe also, right up until the moment they weren’t.
Clayton had requested additional security during his briefing by Secretary of State Humphries, but that request had been summarily denied. “We can’t appear skittish to the public, Clayton, like we’re allowing the actions of one or two lunatics to dictate our response.”
“Sir, the public would never know. The public is unaware these killings are related.”
“True,” Humphries had said. “But at some point the news about those notes will leak out, and once it does, our every move in response to this crisis will be scrutinized by a critical press. We need to maintain a holding pattern, just for now, until our investigators can develop a lead on the perpetrators. Once that happens, we’ll have a better handle on how to proceed.”
Clayton understood Humphries’ point. He even agreed with it on that damned theoretical level. But from a personal standpoint, as a guy with a target presumably painted on his back, a few extra men with guns patrolling the walls and gates of the embassy compound might have made him feel, if not comfortable, at least a little less uneasy.
He sighed and turned away from the clock.
And found himself staring straight down the barrel of a gun.
2
Clayton Leavell was no gun expert. He hated the damned things and in fact had never touched a real handgun, certainly not one that was loaded and ready to fire.
The Soviet Assassin Page 1