The Mercedes made a turn east on Moscow Ring Road, toward Yasenevo. Palovich stopped the limo at the front door of the Dacha Complex, and a Russian Army colonel opened the door for the senior bureaucrat. Viktor stepped out of the car and entered the building.
The dull thump of Viktor’s shoes echoed on the marble floor. Several offices bustled with activity. At the top of the stairs, the security guard snapped to attention. Viktor passed without delay or proof of identification.
The second level of the Dacha Complex was much different than the first. With approximately the same number of offices, it possessed a much finer style of architecture and museum-quality artwork. Between every door hung a portrait of little-known KGB agents and illegals who had successful careers during the Cold War.
Viktor stepped in to his office and the darkness enveloped him. He walked straight to the window and opened the shutters. Wide swaths of light pierced the darkness, crossed the room, and solidified on the far side of the committee’s conference table.
It had been years since his last official day with the KGB. Eight years before the collapse of the Berlin Wall, he had been named the Chief Directorate for Illegals. His job had been to supervise and coordinate the placement of “moles,” Soviet agents placed illegally in a foreign country without diplomatic immunity. When the time was right, a mole was activated for a specific mission. One might go for years without being called; the whole time, they integrated themselves into their assigned environment. It was a job Viktor relished and continued to do, although on a much smaller scale.
In the corner of the room, he hung his coat and hat on the rack, then took his usual seat at the end of the table. A knock on the door broke the silence.
“Enter,” Viktor said.
The door opened, and the dull yellow light spilled inside. A single figure stepped from the familiarity of the brightly lit hallway and cast a shadow across Viktor’s face.
“Good morning,” the man said.
“Aleksandr, good morning, you old fool. Come in and sit.”
“Fool? I think not. As for old, you perhaps should speak on your own behalf, my friend.” He walked in the room and shut the door behind him.
“Don’t remind me,” Viktor said.
“What, that you are old?”
“No, that we are friends,” Viktor said with a chuckle. Aleksandr Chebrikov laughed and sat across from Viktor. The two had been friends for several decades now. Aleksandr was a former general in the GRU, the Soviet Military Intelligence. Now he served as a general in the army, merely a figurehead, who signed papers and toured NATO bases around Europe on goodwill exchanges.
The short, trim, balding man sat in a chair next to Viktor’s desk. He may not have shown it, but Viktor was glad to see his old friend, Aleksandr. He eased the tension of the morning.
“Where are the others, Alek?”
“They will be here soon.”
“Excellent. We have much to discuss.”
Aleksandr picked up a book that sat on the corner of Viktor’s desk. Carrol Quigley’s Tragedy and Hope. His eyebrows raised, and he set the book back down.
“Tell me, Viktor, do you set out to change the world this morning?” he said as he clasped his hands together at his waist.
Viktor stared beyond him and then his eyes contacted Aleksandr’s. “Actually, old friend, I do.”
9
August 14, 1995
* * *
VIKTOR STUDIED THE EIGHT MEN around his table. The meeting in the Dacha Complex had lasted several hours. Each of the principals had an opportunity to speak. Moods varied throughout the morning, from staunch dissention to mild agreement. The morning grew long, as many of the men shared in the desire for something productive to come out of this meeting. Gradually, they began to agree on a few specific points.
“Comrades,” Viktor said. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am that we all see our present situation under similar circumstances. Democracy has been tried in Russia and failed. Our people are starving in the streets and crime is on the rise. The economy is not creating more jobs.
“More and more of our universities and secondary schools are closing. Our scientists who cannot get the support or materials to advance our technology. We don’t have the medical personnel or facilities to take care of our sick and dying, and preventive medication is long since a dream. The athletes of our once-proud nation now struggle to get a decent meal.
“Our military is in shambles. We now rent the once-mighty aircraft of our military to capitalist pigs for joyrides. Our weapons are sold to Third World countries for a fraction of their cost. Russia is no longer a world power, comrades. We are dependent. Dependent on our former enemies, the same capitalists we once kept at bay with the mere tip of our sword.”
“Comrade Kryuchkov,” spoke Vladimir Ogoltsov, a retired KGB general, “it seems we are all in agreement. Capitalism failed our once-glorious country. The attempt at fascism several years back drove our people more toward capitalism.”
“True, but look at where they failed,” said Viktor. “In their effort to stir the nationalist pride, they spoke of world domination. They wanted to bring the former nations that comprised the old Soviet Union back into the fold. The reunion of the Warsaw Pact would mean dissolving NATO’s current configuration. The response from NATO and the United Nations would be swift and sure. They were fools, and Vladimir Zhirinovsky a KGB puppet. A feeble attempt by some to hold on to the past with no plan to develop the future. The fools even spoke of taking Alaska back from the United States.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Aleksandr. A few chuckles broke out across the table.
The seriousness on Viktor’s face did not change.
“In theoretical fantasy, perhaps not. In reality, a foolish concept.”
Viktor left the table, walked across the room, and poured himself a cup of hot tea. The steam rose from the cup as Viktor brought it to his lips and blew lightly across its surface. The warm liquid calmed him. He took the tea back to his seat.
“Gentlemen, we heard various reports and saw many charts today showing the status of our country,” Viktor said, his chin rested in his palm. “Russia is in bad shape. Before we worry about dealing with other countries, we must address our own. Ours is an internal problem. We must fix it from within.”
“Comrade, we all agree with your comments, but please, the day grows long. What do you propose we do?” It was Yuri Trilisser, the overweight Minister of Finance. Viktor was surprised, as Yuri had been quiet most of the day.
“Very well, comrades. I believe it is in the best interest of our nation and the Russian people for a revolution to commence—a revolution that will overthrow the current capitalist government. We will reestablish the Communist Party.”
NIKOLAI GREGARIN MARCHED out of his office on the second floor of the Dacha Complex. His small, five-foot five-inch frame hurried past the other workers in the crowded hallway. Nikolai had the appearance of a frustrated parent more than he did a director of a major Russian spy ring. He thumped the file against his thigh with each step he took. His footsteps echoed throughout the massive corridor, as he stopped for no one. Nikolai was well groomed, in his late thirties, with deep-set and stoic gray eyes behind round spectacles. He had a weakness for fine tailored suits, much like the dark blue suit he wore today.
For the past five years, Nikolai had served as the chief of Section Nine in the Directorate of Illegals. They were unknown to the outside world, and he worked hard to ensure they stayed that way.
Section Nine was a unique branch of illegals. Moles, trained to be assassins, hidden for years, buried in their cover, most never doing the job they trained to do. It was more of an insurance policy against potential threats. No one, including Nikolai, was sure how long Section Nine had been in existence. Many intelligence agencies across the globe hinted Section Nine might have been involved in the slayings of Anwar Sadat and several other persons of influence over the last few decades. The John F. Kennedy and Martin Lu
ther King assassinations were rumored to be their handiwork, as well. No official records of the activities of Section Nine existed, since the files for each assignment were destroyed after its completion. Their current size and exact organization was known only to two men: Nikolai and the man he was on his way to meet.
At the far end of the hallway, Nikolai approached the older woman sitting at the desk outside the custom carved oak door. Inga had been Viktor Kryuchkov’s personal secretary for eighteen years.
“I need to speak to Viktor,” he said, wringing the folder in his hands.
“If you mean Comrade Kryuchkov, he is meeting with the committee,” she said. It was obvious she enjoyed this bit of power as the secretary of one of the most powerful men in Moscow.
“Please, it is urgent. If you let him know I’m here, I am sure he will speak to me.”
“Comrade Kryuchkov advised me he would be busy for most of the morning and is not to be disturbed. If what you need to say to him is important, you may wait over there on the sofa,” she said.
Nikolai scowled. “Thank you for your assistance, comrade.”
The smooth leather sofa was comfortable, the likes of which Nikolai hadn’t seen outside of Western Europe. His eyes wandered about the reception area until they fell once again upon Inga. He and Viktor’s secretary had never liked each other.
Ten minutes later, the door to Viktor’s office opened. Viktor walked out and shook hands with two older gentlemen. His eyebrows raised when he saw Nikolai sitting outside his office.
“Nikolai, how long have you been waiting? There is much to discuss.”
The young director of Section Nine marched across the reception area and smiled as he shook hands with his older supervisor. He admired and respected Viktor.
“Tell me, Nikolai, what brings you here this morning? I sense a seriousness that could make one nervous.” Viktor sat behind his antique desk and gestured for Nikolai to sit in one of the chairs in front of him.
“It is about The Mako again, sir. I fear he might be getting out of control. When we planted him four years ago, he seemed stable. Since then, we have obtained information he participated in a series of unauthorized terminations.”
Viktor winced. The term placed no value on human life. For the members of Section Nine, however, that was their job.
Nikolai continued. “We began investigating him fourteen months ago when new evidence appeared for an unsolved murder that took place ten miles from the training facility. Evidence indicating The Mako. We then studied his movement throughout the United States and documented a series of deaths that followed him across the country.”
“Are you sure The Mako is responsible for these deaths?”
“No, sir, we are not sure of them all, though several have been terminated using methods we teach at the schoolhouse. Those, we are confident he did. We plotted unsolved murders that occurred when The Mako was in the area. He is most likely responsible for those, as well.”
Viktor sat back in his chair, his intensity not wavering. “How many deaths are we talking about?”
“Nine using the methods taught in the schoolhouse and four which match The Mako’s location at the time. These do not include the most recent evidence we have found.”
“Explain,” Viktor said, his eyes searched Nikolai’s face for an answer.
“Yes, sir. When we noticed the trend, we decided to monitor The Mako’s actions. eleven months ago, we placed another operative in his zone to observe him.”
“You realize, Nikolai, that is not standard procedure,” Viktor said.
“Yes, comrade, I do. However, we decided it was a necessary step to ensure the integrity of our operation.”
Viktor squinted. “Very well. Continue.”
“The Mako murdered an individual six days ago in Los Angeles.”
“I see . . . this changes things.” Viktor turned in his chair toward the window. When only allegations or rumors exist, it was easy to ignore. But Nikolai had proof, a witness to a murder committed by one of his operatives. “Continue. Who was this person he killed?”
“The Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who did Mako’s surgery. Our operative witnessed the murder.”
“Why would he do that?”
Nikolai sighed. “Our psychologist suggested that The Mako has a deep-seeded issue with control and secrecy. The fact that the plastic surgeon knew his face before, triggered a reaction within his psyche, causing him to murder the doctor. Or some kind of rubbish like that.”
“This is unsettling, Nikolai. We cannot have a renegade murderer running around the United States killing at his discretion.”
“How do we alleviate this situation, Comrade Kryuchkov?”
Viktor stood with his hands clasped behind his back and stared out at the cold gray morning sky. “I have an idea that might solve both of our problems.” He glanced over his shoulder with a quick turn and asked, “Where is The Mako operating?”
“Currently, Enid, Oklahoma.”
PALOVICH LEFT THE HARD BENCH on the first-floor lobby and walked out the front door. His pudgy hands pulled the pack of Marlboros from his pocket as he shuffled toward the limousine. The small gravel spread loosely in the driveway crackled under the weight of his shoes.
It was unusual, he thought, for the meeting to last this long. Glancing at his watch, he saw they had been in Viktor’s office for over three hours. Fresh loaves of bread, cheese, and sausage had been brought in to the room. Something special occurred today. There had been many meetings in that room over the years, but somehow this one was different. Palovich reached into his pocket, removed his wallet, and unfolded a piece of paper with a phone number on it. He lit a cigarette, leaned against the limo, and stared at the number.
Palovich stuffed the paper back into his pocket and pulled his collar higher around his neck. Across the horizon, the setting sun dropped out of sight. The temperature fell ten more degrees and the wind blew harder. Dark clouds gathered overhead. A storm began to develop.
10
August 17, 1995
* * *
SAN ANTONIO WAS HOT, even for mid-August. By the time the sun reached its highest point in the day, the temperature averaged an excruciating one hundred and one degrees. Because of this, Alonzo Jacobs made a habit of beating the traffic and the heat.
The early start was crucial since the air conditioner in his car didn’t work. His wife had the car with the functioning air conditioner. He secretly hoped someone would steal his 1985 Toyota Corolla. The burnt-orange paint was chipped in several places, and the film shading installed on the windows years ago had started to peel. The seams on the seats had burst, and the car maintained the scent of artificial pine trees.
Alonzo glanced at his watch as he drove through Universal City, a small town outside Randolph Air Force Base, home of Air Education and Training Command. As he reached the front gate of the base, the sun began its lazy journey above the horizon to the east. The Monday morning traffic hadn’t kicked in yet, but in another hour, the line outside the gate would be a nightmare.
The long drive down Gate Street, flanked by flags on either side, terminated at the circle in front of the Taj Mahal. The “Taj” is an old water tower built in the early days of the Army Air Corps before World War II. Alonzo followed the circular intersection to the right and peeled off toward the headquarters building. It was a benign morning, which was fine with him. It was shortly after lunch when Connie, the unit secretary, walked in and handed him a note—a potential computer hack across the base.
He left his office, climbed in his car, and drove to the Air Force Personnel Center (AFPC). He wheeled the old Corolla into the front-row and stepped out of his car.
Alonzo plodded up the stairs to the office on the second floor. He knocked on the doorframe and stepped in with a smile. The name plate on the secretary’s desk said VICKI SIMPSON.
“Hello, I’m Agent Alonzo Jacobs, OSI.” He towered over her and flashed his badge. “Is Major Sinclair in?”
“Special ones.”
Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth slid to the left side of her face. No sense of humor.
He chuckled to himself. “I’m sorry, industry joke. The OSI investigates espionage, terrorism, fraud, computer tampering . . . anything that might threaten Air Force or Department of Defense personnel and resources.”
“So, you’re a spy.”
“No, not a spy. More like an investigator.” His deep voice carried across the room, making his presence more ominous.
“Miss Simpson, can I ask you a few questions?”
“I don’t think I should say anything until my boss returns,” she said, focused on her computer monitor.
“That will be fine. I’ll wait.” Alonzo sat in the lone chair against the wall at the entrance to Vicki’s office.
“So what department do you work in?” she asked, as she continued typing.
“Counterintelligence.”
She turned away from her screen and her lips pursed. “I knew you were a spy.”
Alonzo chuckled again. “I assure you, I’m not a spy. If I were, I think my wife would beat me.”
A faint smile formed on her face.
I’m getting too old for this, he thought, as he removed a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. At fifty-five, Alonzo Jacobs looked good for his age. His six-foot-five frame was lean; his neatly trimmed hair only flecked with gray.
The OSI was a new world to him. He started two years ago after retiring from the Air Force. They recruited, selected, and trained their own agents. He spent ten weeks at the Special Investigator Course at the Air Force Special Investigations Academy in Washington, D.C.; learned the basics of law, investigation techniques, and other areas necessary to work in the field. Upon graduation, he spent one year in the field on a probationary period before he returned to specialize in counterintelligence.
Surly Bonds Page 6