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“R.J. Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”
- Aaron Patterson, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS
“Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”
- Richard D., reader
“Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn’t put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 a.m.
- Ray F., reader
DEAD SHOT
“Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer R.J. Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Dead Shot. It’s that good.”
-Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of THE REMAINS
“You can tell R.J. knows what it’s like to live in the newspaper world, but with Dead Shot, he’s proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery.”
- Josh Katzowitz,
NFL writer for CBSSports.com
& author of Sid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game
DEAD LINE
“This book kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I didn’t really want to put it down. R.J. Patterson has hooked me. I’ll be back for more.”
- Bob Behler
3-time Idaho broadcaster of the year
and play-by-play voice for Boise State football
DEAD IN THE WATER
“In Dead in the Water, R.J. Patterson accurately captures the action-packed saga of a what could be a real-life college football scandal. The sordid details will leave readers flipping through the pages as fast as a hurry-up offense.”
- Mark Schlabach,
ESPN college sports columnist and
co-author of Called to Coach
Heisman: The Man Behind the Trophy
Other titles by R.J. Patterson
Ed Maddux thriller series
King of Queens
To Catch a Spy
Whispers of Treason
Brady Hawk series
Dead Shot
Dead Line
Better off Dead
Dead in the Water
Dead Man's Curve
Dead and Gone
Dead Wrong
Dead Man's Land
Dead Drop
Dead to Rights
Dead End
Dead on Arrival
James Flynn Thriller series
The Warren Omissions
Imminent Threat
The Cooper Affair
Seeds of War
Brady Hawk series
First Strike
Deep Cover
Point of Impact
Full Blast
Target Zero
Fury
State of Play
Siege
Seek and Destroy
Into the Shadows
Hard Target
No Way Out
Two Minutes to Midnight
Against All Odds
Any Means Necessary
THE MAN FROM LENINGRAD
An Ed Maddux Thriller
R.J. PATTERSON
For Dave, the man who introduced me to the
rabid world of college football and loves a good conspiracy
THE MAN FROM LENINGRAD
Chapter I
February 1966
Leningrad, Russia
ALEXSANDR ZHIRKOV PAUSED to gawk at St. Isaac’s Cathedral, one of the city’s crown jewels when it came to architectural splendor. The golden dome glistened, piercing the muted glow of surrounding street lamps. A gentle rain started to fall, snapping Zhirkov out of his trance.
Using his briefcase as a makeshift umbrella, he wove through the congregants exiting the church’s Saturday evening service and made his way toward the crosswalk. Zhirkov hated to be late for anything, always striving to be early. However, his work had held him up, and he was in danger of arriving mere seconds before his chess match at the Angelterre Hotel was scheduled to begin.
In his haste, he nearly trampled an elderly woman moving slowly across the street with the help of a cane. He stopped and took a deep breath, unable to ignore her. Coming alongside the woman, Zhirkov held his briefcase over her head until they both safely crossed the intersection. She didn’t acknowledge him, instead working her way toward a bus that was accepting passengers. Zhirkov offered his arm to help her up the stairs and then dropped a few coins into the driver’s hand.
“That’s for her fare,” Zhirkov said before dashing away.
He broke into a sprint, hitting full stride just a few feet from the front doors of the hotel.
Still dressed in his Soviet Navy attire, he walked quickly into the great hall where chess tables dotted the room. A woman put her hand up, halting his frantic search for an empty seat.
“Name?” she asked.
“Zhirkov,” he said. “Alexsandr Zhirkov.”
She studied her clipboard for a moment until she located his name. She looked up and smiled at him.
“There you are, Mr. Zhirkov,” she said. “You arrived just in time. Your match is at table seventeen.”
Zhirkov removed his cap, tucking it beneath his arm, and navigated the most direct path to his empty seat, the only one in the room. He sat down and sighed before glancing at the table. Then he looked up at his competitor.
“Alexsandr?” the man asked.
Zhirkov stared intently at the man for a moment in an attempt to place him. He looked familiar, but Zhirkov couldn’t be sure where they had met.
“Yes,” Zhirkov said before glancing at the game clock where both their last names were displayed.
“Ivan Kolnikov,” the man said, offering his hand. “From university? I believe we took a psychology class together.”
“Oh, yes,” Zhirkov said, forcing a smile. He still couldn’t place his opponent, though that didn’t concern Zhirkov too much. Chess, not socializing, was the reason he’d entered the tournament.
A man spoke over a loudspeaker, announcing that start of the competition.
Zhirkov controlled the black pieces, giving him the second turn. Kolnikov moved a pawn, setting up what appeared to be a strategy to castle. Over the next few minutes, the men maneuvered around the board, preparing defenses as well as positioning pieces for future attacks.
The back-and-forth scheming felt all too familiar to Zhirkov. Ever since he’d been asked to serve as one of the chief nuclear engineers in the Soviet Navy, he watched admirals and general debate the merits of utilizing a nuclear attack from sea. He also found himself in meetings where these same leaders discussed how they would prevent the Americans from launching such an attack on large cities such as Moscow and Leningrad. Unlike the United States, Russia’s most populated cities were insulated by hundreds of thousands of acres of land or perilous seas. Any potential U.S. attack from the Pacific side would be a slog across frozen tundra with few passable routes. Approaching from the east, the U.S. would have to enlist the help of numerous allies, none of
which would be interested in becoming the battleground for another world war. All of that banter led Zhirkov to believe that everything was little more than political posturing.
However, the Russians weren’t fully aware of all the technology the Americans possessed. Several key spies had been captured, some of them reportedly executed, resulting in a trickle of information about what exactly was going on beyond the borders of the USSR. If the U.S. had the ability to strike from afar, these concerns of a pending war were valid—on one condition: The Soviets initiated the provocation.
For the past several years, Leonid Brezhnev, the Soviet Union’s General Secretary of the Communist Party, had struggled to wrestle power away from his party’s hardliner faction. While Brezhnev had ramped up spending for the Soviet military, he failed to do what many couldn’t coerce Nikita Khruschchev to do: flex the USSR’s might with an attack on the U.S., weakening its standing within the international community at large.
Zhirkov watched his opponent employ the use of his knight, the stealthiest piece in the game. After hitting the clock to initiate Zhirkov’s turn, Kolnikov wore a slight smile on his face as he leaned back in his chair.
Surveying the board for a moment, Zhirkov’s eyes widened. The move was a stroke of genius, one he couldn’t believe he’d never seen before in all his years of playing chess. However, he wasn’t about to retreat. Instead, he decided to regroup and take a different approach, just like he handled his superiors just over a year ago when they started banging the war drums with more intensity than ever before.
When Zhirkov saw the Soviet military leaders’ plan unfolding, he knew he could only delay their demands for so long. The Soviet Navy would soon have the capability to launch nuclear weapons from submarines while remaining at a safe distance in international waters. Regular routes along both U.S. seaboards had been implemented so as not to raise serious alarm within the American military. Benign voyages that never resulted in any type of engagement eventually became background noise, blending in to the regular rhythms of the Cold War. The U.S. wasn’t suspicious—until Zhirkov made them that way.
Convinced that a world war wouldn’t be good for anyone—even the victors—Zhirkov sought out a U.S. operative from the CIA. If Zhirkov made a mistake and his intentions became known, death was the likely outcome. However, it was a risk he felt duty-bound to make, not just for his conscience’s sake but also for the sake of the world. With some of the hardliners within the Soviet military prepared to defy Brezhnev, a simple report to opposing party members would only delay the inevitable. This secret attack needed to be foiled in a way that humiliated the Soviets and resulted in definitive action being taken against the meddling leaders.
Zhirkov mulled over his next move. Kolnikov appeared focused and confident, while Zhirkov was still trying to settle his nerves. He didn’t arrive late because he helped an elderly woman across the street; his tardiness instead had everything to do with the meeting he had arranged with Will Logan, the CIA operative he’d managed to make contact with.
Just hours earlier, Zhirkov informed Logan that the Soviets were planning an imminent nuclear attack. In an effort to thwart the escalation of the Cold War into a full-blown conflict, Zhirkov realized that he had to divulge that one was coming—though he’d yet to turn over all the details. He’d decided to do that later in a more discreet manner, though he’d yet to work out the details. Zhirkov had managed to compile copies of documents detailing how the nuclear missile launch would occur and wanted to ensure that those reached Logan as well. But Zhirkov wanted to be sure that Will Logan was who he said he was. Without verifying Logan’s identity, Zhirkov’s gambit of handing over detailed plans was a dicey one. Yet he just couldn’t sit around wringing his hands any longer. The time for action had arrived, and he’d taken a small step with a bigger one still to come.
In the meantime, Zhirkov hoped that the scant intel would be enough to set into motion a plan to ambush the Soviets, resulting in Brezhnev’s more level-headed leadership to tighten its controlling grip. All that needed to take place was the Soviets learning of the Americans knowledge of such an event through counterintelligence measures.
Zhirkov nervously tapped his index fingers against his thumbs before making his move. He glanced at the clock, which seemed to be chewing through his time at a disproportionate rate. After a deep breath, he positioned his bishop to what he believed to be an offensive location. Kolnikov smirked as he moved his other knight and proclaimed the dreaded word: “Checkmate.”
A tournament official scurried over to verify that Kolnikov had indeed secured checkmate. Meanwhile, Zhirkov examined the board in hopes that his opponent might be wrong. Scanning left and right, Zhirkov sighed when he realized that he’d been soundly thrashed.
Zhirkov stood and offered his hand to Kolnikov.
“Good game,” Zhirkov said as the two shook.
He looked back down at the board, still bewildered that he hadn’t seen the brilliant attack materializing before it was too late. So intent was his gaze that he also didn’t notice the four KGB agents who had surrounded their playing table amid the hushed whispers that interrupted a usual silent room of competition.
Resigned that he’d been trounced, Zhirkov locked eyes with one of the agents. Glancing to the left and then right, Zhirkov realized he had no viable path to escape. Kolnikov hadn’t budged from his position either. He looked at Zhirkov and winked.
“Checkmate again,” Kolnikov said.
Zhirkov wanted to rescind his handshake and trade it for a punch—along with a prayer of chance to flee the men sent to detain him. This was a classic KGB set up, one so thorough in scope and precisely designed that it belonged on a chessboard.
“Comrades,” Zhirkov began while wearing a furrowed brow, “what’s this all about?”
“Don’t play dumb with us,” Kolnikov said. “You know exactly what this is about.”
Zhirkov sighed with a shrug.“You’ll have to enlighten me, perhaps after we share a customary post-match shot of vodka.”
Kolnikov remained silent then nodded at the other men who grabbed Zhirkov and ushered him out of the room. While remaining quiet to preserve the peace during the tournament, Zhirkov resisted the agents’ restraint once they reached the hallway.
“I have no idea why you are doing this to me,” Zhirkov said. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Perhaps you need to be refreshed about what constitutes right and wrong,” Kolnikov said. “Sharing classified information with the Americans is most definitely wrong, comrade.”
Zhirkov didn’t attempt to walk as the men dragged him out of a back entrance. They slung him into a van where he crashed into the sidewall, viciously hitting his head.
All the men piled inside before one of them placed restraints on Zhirkov. Kolnikov was the last one to get inside.
“It was a pleasure beating you at chess,” he said after easing into the driver’s seat. “Perhaps you will learn to improve your game in prison—that is, if you live long enough to get out.”
Zhirkov rolled around on the floor of the van before two of the agents secured his legs, forcing him into a prone position. He looked up in time to see a fist hit him square in the jaw. Seconds later, a flurry of punches followed, the last one knocking him out.
Chapter II
One month later
Bonn, Germany
CHARLES PRITCHETT ADJUSTED his eye patch as he lumbered along the walkway running parallel with the Rhine River. A hint of spring was in the air, though old man winter was projected to make one final stand before yielding. The first day in months that didn’t require a heavy coat drove scores of antsy people outside and some onto the water. With his hands jammed into his pockets, he inhaled the fresh air and considered the pressure Washington was exerting on him.
Serving as the CIA station chief in what was considered the battleground of counterintelligence with the Soviets meant he faced a constant stream of political leaders demanding information, some of wh
ich simply hadn’t been obtained. Pritchett had become well versed in the art of assuaging people’s fears after spending over three decades with the agency. Most of the time such worries were unfounded. As his agents cobbled together information and submitted reports, Pritchett understood the difference between an enemy’s goals and its actual ability to carry out sinister plots. However, bureaucrats and even some top-ranking military brass couldn’t distinguish between the two. But in Pritchett’s current situation, it didn’t matter—there was sufficient reason for alarm.
Ever since Alexsandr Zhirkov, a nuclear engineer for the Soviet Navy along with being one of the agency’s most well-placed assets, divulged that a nuclear attack was not only in the works but imminent, Washington was abuzz with fear. However, that anxiety only heightened once Zhirkov went missing. Despite promising to deliver detailed plans about the attack, he had vanished without a trace. Will Logan, the CIA agent tasked with handling Zhirkov, could only pry so much without getting burned himself. The KGB used such tactics to flush out American operatives with great success in the past. But Logan insisted he had been careful, yet he hadn’t learned anything about the nature of his asset’s disappearance.
Pritchett’s reason for ambling along the Rhine River was only partially about clearing his head to think. The other reason was to have a chat with one of his best emerging operatives, Ed Maddux.
* * *
ED MADDUX FELL INTO a relaxing rhythm as he eased his single sculling boat along the Rhine’s smooth waters. Several months had passed since his last major operation, a break he appreciated. Without a pressing situation, he found he enjoyed the opportunity to explore Bonn as a more permanent resident, all while again falling in love with his job of marketing automobiles. He also managed to squeeze in a winter vacation to Bali where he learned how to scuba dive in the warm waters there.
But when he noticed Charles Pritchett strolling down to the nearby docks, Maddux knew his brush with a utopian existence was about to be squelched with a cold dose of CIA reality.
The Man from Leningrad Page 1