Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “Gentlemen, we are faced with a particular problem,” Viktor said. Placing the papers on his desk, he leaned back in his chair. “You are here today to discuss a solution: the good and bad aspects of it, and the potential political and international ramifications of our actions.”

  “Viktor,” Vladimir Ogoltsov, the former KGB general, interjected, “we have guaranteed the support from the remaining army divisions in Russia. This will give us the stability to enact our plan.”

  “Yes, I know. I don’t feel we will have any difficulty overthrowing the current republic. The majority of the people called for it. The backing of the army, however, will make it inevitable.”

  “Comrade Kryuchkov, it is clear we the have the army’s support, but what of our air and naval forces?” Yuri Trilisser, the high-ranking Minister of Finance asked, posing a challenge that others avoided. They all sensed the nervousness in the air. Each of them aware they must tread with caution.

  “Surely, they will join the cause.” Aleksandr Chebrikov, Viktor’s long-time friend said. “They have suffered the same difficulties over the past several years as the rest of us. It can only be for their benefit, as well as ours, that they join us.”

  “That is a fine picture, comrade,” Yuri said, “but what if they choose to side with the Republic? What are our chances for success?”

  Vladimir leaned forward to speak. “They pose no immediate threat; perhaps no long-range threat either. Obviously, the naval forces will not be in a position for opposition should they decline to side with us. Theirs is a coastal defense. Even if they attempt to project at sea, it would have no effect. It is impossible for them to distinguish targets from the sea amid a revolution. The same would be true for the air forces. The fighters would have no adversaries; the strategic bombers would face the same targeting problems as the naval forces. They will not strike in the cities, nor would they want to. It would do them no good.

  “I thought this might bother some of you,” Vladimir said. “Could someone get the lights please?” He proceeded to turn on a slide projector as the lights dimmed. The first slide was an introduction, STATUS OF FORCES, LAND, SEA, AND AIR. Vladimir continued with his pre-planned briefing, meticulously prepared and carefully structured. For the next hour, he covered every aspect of each of the services, from morale and living conditions, to the quality of their equipment and amount of experience and training. Nuclear forces that remained in Russia were currently under their control. Most of the remaining scientists would also follow the cause. Russia’s space program could be a problem because of the international crew on board the Mir. They would replace them with cosmonauts and return the foreigners to their homelands.

  Throughout the briefing, he won over each member of the secret council. Viktor smiled as he observed the reactions of his fellow committee members while Vladimir spoke. When the briefing ended, Viktor straightened in his chair.

  “It is obvious with the backing of our Russian army—the overthrow of the Republic will be a success. Comrades, I must now ask the question we have avoided up to this point.” He again studied their faces. Viktor realized they needed to be steered toward the real reason of this meeting. “How will the international community react when this event unfolds?”

  It was the obvious question, and each man barked out ideas at once. The calm of the committee rapidly deteriorated as the noise level rose in a rapid crescendo.

  Taken aback, Viktor stood sternly attempting to maintain his composure in this sudden chaos. “Comrades, please! One at a time,”

  The noise subsided as quickly as it had begun.

  “The Americans will be outraged!” Aleksandr said. “Their policies over the past three years are based on the fact that Russia is now, at least for all practical purposes, a democracy.”

  “Yes, that problem will be discussed soon,” Viktor said. “What else?”

  “Britain and France will also present the usual problems. The French concentrated on the buildup and modernization of its forces for several years now. Still, neither will pose any type of threat to the revolution within Russia. They will interfere only if we take the conflict beyond our own borders.” Yuri had been an authority on Western European tactics as a young officer prior to his diplomatic deployment and had been consulted on potential foreign reactions to events throughout his career.

  Vladimir spoke again. “Perhaps the most immediate threat will be China, who began serious systems upgrades for all its weaponry years ago. In five years, they will have the capability to project their power in the Western Hemisphere. If they can do that, what do you suppose they could do to us? Again, what would they gain from a long, sustained war with a country who is in as bad or worse shape as them? The Japanese will stop their investments in developing the electrical companies here, but all Asia will observe from the outside to see what develops in Mother Russia. This could trigger another world war.”

  “You all act like fools.” Aleksandr gave a steely look around the room. “It is the Americans who set international policy, and the world follows. What will be their concern? If we accomplish the coup now, we will be fine. The American president is a fool and weak on foreign affairs. He will be unable to make a decision, let alone the right decision, and unable to lead the international community to take a stand.”

  “Correct, Aleksandr.” Viktor smiled from the end of the table.

  Aleksandr seemed caught off-guard. “Of course,” he said. “This coup we are planning will not take place for another sixteen months. By that time, the Americans will elect a new president. They are so disgusted with the imbecile in office that he will surely lose. They won’t engage us. That Arab fool bin Laden blew up a bomb in the World Trade Center, and they leave him alone.”

  “Thank you, Aleksandr,” Viktor said. “I will continue from here. Comrades, Aleksandr Chebrikov made a most valuable statement. The Americans have destroyed the once-powerful military built by President Reagan. The prolonged police actions in Southwest Asia and Korea, coupled with dwindling support, has crushed the morale and backbone of the armed services. With the American elections approaching, the opposition candidate, Senator Jonathan Bowman, is almost assured victory in the Republican primary and the general election according to the American media. America is looking for a savior, someone who can lead them to the path of greatness once again. Thus, we must find a way which will ensure the reigning administration remains in office. Gentleman, I would like to introduce you to Comrade Nikolai Gregarin of Section Nine, who has devised such a plan.”

  Everyone turned toward the back of the room as the short, well-dressed man rose from his seat and walked toward the front. He took his position next to Viktor, a subtle gesture that implied he spoke with Viktor’s authority.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” Nikolai began. “The information you are about to hear is not to leave this room. As Comrade Kryuchkov said, it is imperative to the success of our mission that we ensure the re-election of the current American administration. By doing—”

  “Just how in hell do you plan to do that, comrade?” Vladimir Ogoltsov said. “Are we going to tamper with their electoral system? Stuff the ballot box?”

  His outbreak drew several remarks and chuckles from those sitting around the table. Vladimir sat back with a big smile, as he appeared to enjoy putting the younger Russian in his place.

  Nikolai, expressionless, responded coldly. “Gentlemen, within twenty days, we will assassinate the man favored to win the Republican nomination and ultimately the presidency, Senator Jonathan Bowman.”

  The room fell silent.

  OUTSIDE THE OFFICE, Viktor’s driver, Palovich Merlov, sat alone, faking sleep. What he had just heard, however, made him sit up abruptly in his chair. He adjusted the tiny listening device concealed in his ear as he scanned the room. He was still alone. For another five minutes, he listened as Nikolai finished his brief. These men were insane. Did they actually plan to kill a U.S. senator running for president?

  Palovich removed th
e device from his ear and placed it in his pocket. Ever since he had been recruited, it was something he hoped never to be involved in. Palovich never considered himself a traitor. He defended the interests of Mother Russia. Yes, they’d given him money, but he would have done this without it. He stood nervously and paced the room, wondering what he should do. Staring at the phone on the desk ten feet away, he knew he had to get word to the Americans. He had the number for a one-time emergency. This situation more than qualified, he decided. He moved to the desk, his head twisted, ensuring no one was around. Palovich dialed the number. “Hello,” a male voice said in a thick Slavic accent.

  “Is my friend Uri there? This is his comrade, Palovich.” His voice was monotone, without emotion. Palovich was sure he was being monitored.

  Uri was a code word identifying himself.

  “No, Palovich, Uri is not here. How are you?”

  “I was just calling to tell Uri the rabbit is running these days. Perhaps we could go hunting tomorrow.”

  “I’ll let him know, Good day, Palovich.”

  The voice at the other end of the phone hung up. Palovich’s message was simple: Nikolai Gregarin was on the move.

  23

  September 4, 1995

  * * *

  THE MAN NAMED MIKEAL hung up his phone. Mikeal Tolstoy, factory worker, a short, portly man with too much free time on his hands. A thick, bushy mustache hid the tense lines around his mouth. His wife died years ago, while at work in the fields, and their children never came to see him. He was a man alone.

  Mikeal removed his spectacles and cleaned the lenses with a scarf, as he contemplated the message. He never expected to receive the phone call. It had been over a year, since the man from the American embassy convinced him to act as an agent for the CIA. It seemed an easy task. The CIA didn’t ask much, mainly for him to relay phone calls, then drop off information. An unknown person calls him and leaves a message; he relays the information right away to a contact for the Americans. It was a low-risk venture, and the thousand American dollars he had been paid was well worth the risk. He scribbled the note on a piece of paper, placed it in a cigarette pack, and stuck the pack in his pocket.

  Mikeal enjoyed being a participant in the remnants of the Cold War spy game. He wasn’t really a spy—he knew nothing of any importance. How could he hurt anyone? A list of names was all he had, and they weren’t real names. He was instructed to write down the message and who called. He’d dial a number, let the phone ring twice and hang up. Then dial a second time and let it ring three times and hang up. On the third attempt, someone would answer the phone. That was the plan. He never used the process until today.

  The phone answered on the third call.

  “This is Mikeal. Today is a lovely day for a walk. I think I will take one.”

  “That sounds nice. Enjoy your walk,” replied the voice.

  His hands trembled as he set the handset back onto the cradle. He had never done this before. Grabbing his coat, he locked the door to his small apartment and entered the cold streets of Moscow. It should only take forty-five minutes and would give him time to think.

  His heart pounded, and his forehead beaded with sweat. He had never made a dead drop before, nor had contact with the CIA. Four degrees Celsius outside, and he was sweating. Along the way, he stopped to buy a newspaper, stuck it under his arm, and continued to walk. Mikeal tried to avoid looking over his shoulder. He worried about being followed, but he didn’t want to be too obvious.

  He scurried to his destination. Occasionally, he lost his footing on the slippery sidewalk and streets, but he pressed forward. He was a man possessed, oblivious to the sights and sounds around him.

  Mikeal reached the contact point and realized he had another five minutes to wait. He slowed his pace and scanned the area. The designated location, a light pole across the street from a grocer’s, remained isolated. He took his place on the left side of the light pole and glanced at his watch. One minute to go. He timed it perfectly. Opening his newspaper, he stood there for the next five minutes, waiting.

  Inside the building, above the grocers, two men watched through the curtains. The man outside showed up at the appropriate time at the designated spot, but they were unable to acquire a positive I.D. on him. They had one-minute left to make the decision as to whether he was a legitimate agent or a plant. Across the street, twenty yards from the Russian, a caseworker waited to follow the Russian if he was confirmed legitimate.

  “Damn, put the paper down so I can see your face,” the tall American said. “Nobody reads a newspaper like that.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him, Hank. These guys aren’t pros,” the short, stocky one said.

  Boston-born Hank Fielding had four years of experience as a field man with the CIA. Looking at his younger, stockier partner, Dave Loomis, he shook his head. They had both been at the Moscow embassy for several years, six between them. The job lacked the excitement of the Cold War days, but still made for interesting work. Much of their focus switched to economic issues and industrial espionage.

  “If he gets paid, he’s a pro,” Hank said. “That’s all there is to it. I remember four years ago I was working with this character in New Delhi. He was a shopkeeper who had this black-market carpet business on the side. Well, he goes . . .” Hank paused for a moment and adjusted his binoculars. The man by the pole had lowered his paper, looked both ways, and began to walk. “Holy smokes, we got an I.D.! He’s Mikeal Tolstoy, a retired factory worker I signed on a year ago. Okay, let’s tag him Dave.” Stocky Dave from Nebraska walked over to the curtain, drew them closed, then open again. On the sidewalk across the street, a man in an overcoat turned to follow Mikeal Tolstoy.

  MIKEAL WAITED THE FIVE MINUTES as instructed, then headed to the dead drop location. He shuffled down the block of the empty street, the nervousness inside him building. He sweated, his undershirt matted against his chest, his breath shallow and uncontrolled. Had he been followed? Mikeal dismissed the thought. He had been careful, and his actions were not out of the ordinary. His five-minute wait elapsed. Folding the paper under his arm, he turned and walked north. The location was two blocks away and he picked up his pace.

  He was ready to end this. A thousand American dollars didn’t seem to be as much money now as it did when he made the deal. His heartbeat increased and sweat poured down his forehead as he maintained his fast pace. He reached the drop point sooner than expected. His hands shook while he fumbled through his pockets. He pulled out the packet of cigarettes containing his note. To look inconspicuous, he lit a cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he pushed the smoke out of his lungs. The cigarette calmed his nerves, as he leaned against the building.

  Mikeal continued to scan the area to see if he was followed but saw nothing unusual. People milled around, but no one who could have followed him. Mikeal crumpled the cigarette pack and dropped it by his feet. He crushed the cigarette pack beneath his heel, a symbolic gesture. After another drag on his cigarette, he tossed it on the ground, and walked away. His heart pounded; resonating in his ears and his fingertips. The accelerated heartbeat and the blood that coursed through his veins wasn’t from excitement; it was fear. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he removed his spectacles, which fogged up over the past two minutes. Mikeal Tolstoy was through with this business.

  NOT LONG AFTER MIKEAL TOLSTOY made his transaction, a medium-sized man that wore a heavy coat and carried a briefcase, walked the same path. When he reached the spot where Mikeal had stood, he set his briefcase on the ground, and kneeled, as if to tie his shoe. He picked up the cigarette pack, slipped it in his coat pocket, and continued his stroll along the street. A dark Mercedes Benz at the corner of the street cranked its engine. The man climbed into the passenger’s seat. When the door closed, the car bolted from the curbside, and disappeared around the corner.

  24

  September 4, 1995

  * * *

  “WELL, KIDDO, ARE YOU READY for the big day?” Gus said.

 
; Jason peeked up from his Dash One. “I don’t know. I’ve had a bad weekend. I got very little studying done and even less sleep.”

  “Your weekend couldn’t be as bad as mine. Bud Bailey’s still missing, and I just finished meeting with the wing commander and the cops. But as for you, I suggest you dump that woman stuff out of your head and focus on the job at hand, mister,” Gus said. “There’s always going to be women around to chase, but you only get one crack at flying jets. Don’t dork it up because your Johnson didn’t know what to do over the weekend.”

  “Yeah, Bethany did me wrong. Now, I finally meet someone I think I could care about, and now she’s with someone else. It’s just one f-ing mess.”

  “Jason.” Gus moved in close. “Stop this crap. Do you hear me? Clear your mind and concentrate on the check ride. What profile do you have?”

  “Profile two. I’ve already been briefed by the check pilot.”

  “Who?”

  “Anderson.”

  “Hmph, don’t know much about him. What’s he like?”

  “He seems okay. He’s into playing the distance thing, though. I guess, so he can hook me with a clear conscience.”

  “Stop the negative vibes, mister. When do you step?”

  Jason stared at the wall in front of him for several moments.

  “Dude, when do you step?”

  Breaking out of his momentary trance, he refocused his attention on Gus, “I’m sorry, I was thinking about something else.”

  “It better have been the check ride.”

  “Yeah, yeah, it was,” Jason said. It was a lie; his mind was all over the place. “I step at thirteen-fifteen for a thirteen-forty-five takeoff.”

  “How many times have you reviewed the profile?”