by Greg Cox
She blithely placed her own “weapon” in the handbag dangling from her shoulder, then lunged toward Shannon. The younger woman desperately squeezed something that felt like a trigger, but, just as the blonde had predicted, nothing happened. Her attacker confidently grabbed on to Shannon’s arm, and, with some sort of practiced martial-arts move, put pressure on the startled lab worker’s wrist, forcing her to let go of the pistol. “There!” the blonde said cheerfully, stepping back with her prize, which she tucked efficiently into the pocket of her sweater. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Feeling the situation rapidly slipping out of her control, Shannon hesitated, uncertain whether to run for the phone or to try to physically wrestle the stolen artifacts away from the other woman. I knew I should’ve have taken that self-defense course at the gym!
“Whoa there, Red,” the blonde warned her, as if reading her mind. She removed a silver fountain pen from one of the fuzzy chartreuse leg warmers around her shins and pointed its tip at Shannon. “Believe it or not, I’m not bluffing this time. This little pen-thingie really is a weapon, sort of, so don’t even think of going Rambo on me.”
Glancing over her shoulder at a supply closet at the opposite side of the lab, she began backing away from Shannon. I don’t understand, Shannon thought, unable to keep up with this bewildering chain of [339] events. Where does she think she can go? There’s no way out of here except past all the guards! Somehow, though, she knew that the nameless blonde was completely capable of slipping out of Area 51 as mysteriously as she had arrived, taking the two captured artifacts with her.
“Wait!” Shannon called out, more anxious than ever to plumb the secrets of the alien devices. “What if we promised to share the knowledge with the entire world, including our enemies? That way we could all benefit!”
The blonde paused, regarding Shannon with an intrigued expression. “I appreciate the sentiment,” she said, shaking her head slowly, “but the world just can’t risk that right now. Things are too delicate, geopolitically speaking.” She looked Shannon over speculatively, as if appraising the young engineer according to some unspecified criteria, “But maybe we should talk again sometime. What’s your name anyway?”
“Shannon,” she answered uncertainly, hoping fervently that she wasn’t signing up for her very own alien abduction, just like that missing marine biologist. “Shannon O’Donnell.”
The blonde smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Shannon.” From across the lab, she pointed her pen directly at the younger woman. “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit.”
Panic flared for an instant inside Shannon’s pounding heart. Then the silver pen hummed loudly and all her worries went away.
At least for an hour or so.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
RED SQUARE
MOSCOW
UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS
OCTOBER 10, 1986
RISING HIGH ABOVE THE KREMLIN’S red brick walls, the clock tower chimed a revolutionary anthem as the clock struck seven. Colonel Anastasia Komananov of the KGB, Third Chief Directorate, quickened her step as she crossed Red Square toward the forbidding walled fortress that now served as the headquarters of the Soviet Union. Her double-breasted, steel-gray greatcoat was buttoned securely against the bitter cold of the evening. Gold stars, signifying her rank, glittered upon the collar of the heavy wool coat, and a slim black attaché case was chained securely to her wrist.
The wintry chill, extreme for October, had already driven both townspeople and tourists indoors, so that the square was largely deserted tonight. Komananov strode briskly across the wide expanse of white cobblestones, making swift progress toward her ultimate destination. Just ahead, on the far side of the square, the domed rotunda of the Russian Senate could be glimpsed above and beyond the crenellated red battlements of the Kremlin walls. Urgent business, vital to the continued existence of the Soviet Union, awaited Komananov within the Presidium building, next to the Senate, but first she had another stop to make.
[341] A pyramid of stacked, cubiform blocks, Lenin’s Tomb squatted in the shadow of the Kremlin, its red granite facade matching the stern walls looming behind it. Rows of neatly trimmed pine trees flanked the entrance to the mausoleum, which was also protected by an honor guard of uniformed soldiers, bearing AK-74 assault rifles. Above the doorway, large Cyrillic letters spelled out the surname of the Father of the Revolution.
By day, a long line of visitors, composed of both sincere pilgrims and curious sight-seers, usually stretched outside the Tomb, waiting for their turn to pay their respects to the deceased Soviet premier. Now, after closing time, only the stern-faced guards remained, standing stiffly at attention as Komananov approached. The colonel nodded curtly as the soldiers saluted her smartly and, without a word, let her pass. She did not need to express her intentions out loud; it was her habit, well known to the guards posted here, to meditate within the Tomb after the tourists had all departed. Although she was running slightly behind schedule this evening, having left KGB Headquarters, in nearby Lubyanka Square, several minutes later than she had intended, she judged it important that, tonight of all nights, she not deviate in the slightest manner from her accustomed routine, lest her actions attract unwanted attention.
I must do nothing suspicious, she cautioned herself silently, maintaining a solemn, inscrutable expression on her austerely attractive features. A pair of matching pearl earrings added a feminine touch to her otherwise intimidating aspect and apparel. Not tonight, nor in the days to come. Eyes the color of cloudless blue Siberian skies betrayed not a hint of the worries troubling her mind. The operation must succeed, she vowed. The future of the Revolution depends on it.
If all went as planned tonight, she would go down in history as one of the saviors of the Soviet Union, which was, if nothing else, certainly preferable to her other, more dubious claim to fame; to Anastasia Komananov’s lasting embarrassment, she had already been immortalized in a trashy British spy novel written by a western agent of her acquaintance, who had retired from the field to pursue a more “literary” career. Fortune willing, her true accomplishments would soon eclipse those of her fictional counterpart—or so she fervently hoped.
[342] Removing her fur-lined gray ushanka hat, she passed beneath the imposing granite portal into the dimly lit interior of the Tomb. Her footsteps echoed within the sepulchral atmosphere of the crypt as she walked down a couple of short, empty hallways until she came to the final resting place of the man who transformed Russia from a backward monarchy to a modern Communist state. Encased in glass, the mortal remains of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin lay in state upon an ornate bier of filigreed iron and crushed purple velvet, looking remarkably preserved for someone who had died over six decades ago. His balding pate rested upon a plush velvet pillow, while his skin, although a trifle waxy, retained the ruddy glow and hue of life. He looked as though he were merely sleeping, a serene expression upon his distinguished features, his arms resting comfortably at his side. Expert lighting cast a golden radiance over the scene, accenting the lifelike quality of the recumbent figure, who wore a conservative dark blue suit. Iron spears, their heads carefully crafted into the hammer and sickle emblems of the Soviet State, flanked the bier, symbolically standing watch over the great Bolshevik leader. Anastasia Komananov felt a surge of patriotism, and renewed resolve, as she contemplated the inspiring tableau before her.
Rumors persisted, of course, that all or part of the body on the bier was a clever forgery, that “Lenin” himself was nothing but a waxwork dummy, posing as an expertly embalmed corpse. Komananov had personally chosen never to probe too deeply into the subject. No doubt she could uncover the truth if she wished, given her extensive KGB connections, but the colonel preferred to believe that the body was genuine, especially at times like these, when her duty and devotion to the State were most severely tested.
Would Lenin have approved of tonight’s drastic actions? Most definitely, Komananov assured herself emphatically, once he under
stood all that was at stake. Mikhail Gorbachev, the man currently at the helm of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, was a weakling and a traitor, who would almost certainly bring about the total ruin of the Soviet Union if he was not stopped. Komananov’s hot Cossack blood boiled as she recalled the many ways in which their new general secretary had [343] already undermined the safety and security of the nation: dropping the post of Minister of Defense from the inner circle of the Politburo, announcing a unilateral moratorium on nuclear testing, proposing recklessly sharp cutbacks in strategic weapons, and, incredibly, insanely, suggesting publicly that he might allow outsiders to conduct inspections of currently off-limits Soviet military installations, so that foreign operatives could check on Russia’s compliance with the outrageous disarmament treaties that Gorbachev seemed all too eager to agree to!
The colonel glanced at her wristwatch. It was only ten after seven here in Moscow, which meant that the sun had not yet set in Iceland, where, even now, Gorbachev and his woolly-minded, liberal cronies were meeting with the American president to bargain away yet more of Mother Russia’s military might. According to her informants within the Politburo, the general secretary seriously intended to discuss the total elimination of all strategic nuclear weapons with Reagan, that senile old warmonger. Along with his dangerously liberal internal policies, and his growing reluctance to press on with the war in Afghanistan, it was very clear that Gorbachev, seduced by his rising celebrity abroad, posed an unmistakable threat to everything that generations of heroic Communists had worked and sacrificed to build. If Lenin knew what his deluded successor was up to, Komananov felt quite certain, he would rise up physically, wax or no wax, to squash Mikhail Sergeyevich once and for all!
“Fear not, comrade,” she whispered in Russian to the entombed Bolshevik, watching her words even in the privacy of the crypt. Her gloved fingers tightly gripped the handle of the black attaché case. “Tonight the Revolution is safe in my hands.”
She turned to leave the crypt, only to be frozen in place by the unexpected sound of a voice addressing her from behind. “And why is that, Colonel Komananov?”
The colonel’s hat slipped from her fingers onto the floor. Spinning around in shock, she was stunned to see Lenin sitting up atop the bier, the transparent glass sarcophagus raised upon its side. Swinging his feet over the edge of the ornamented iron catafalque and onto the [344] floor, the undead corpse stood up for the first time in sixty years and straightened his neatly pressed blue jacket. Piercing gray eyes, undeniably alive, locked on to Komananov, as though the fearsome figure already knew the deadly secrets closely guarded within her mind. “Well?” V. I. Lenin demanded imperiously. “How exactly do you intend to carry out your promise? And what is so special about tonight?”
For a few terrifying instants, a frisson of genuine superstitious fright coursed through the transfixed KGB officer, raising goose bumps beneath her austere brown army uniform. Eerie peasant folktales of vampires and ghouls and other unearthly revenants, planted deep in her mind during childhood, surged back into her thoughts like a bloodthirsty vourdalak bursting from its despoiled grave.
Then her intellect reasserted itself, and she realized in anger that she had been deceived. “Imposter!” she spat venomously at the tall, bearded figure, who looked disturbingly like every photo she had ever seen of Lenin. “How dare you desecrate the memory of Vladimir Ilyich!”
“My apologies, Colonel,” the false Lenin replied. Although his Russian remained impeccable, he now spoke with an American accent, revealing his corrupt, capitalist origins. Stepping away from the bier, he drew a slender silver fountain pen from his suit pocket and aimed it menacingly at Komananov. With his spare hand, he peeled a rubber baldcap off the top of his skull, exposing a head of graying brown hair. “Rest assured that the spurious effigy on display here will be returned to its usual berth once our business is concluded.” A fake red beard went the way of the rubber cap, but layers of waxy orange makeup still obscured the imposter’s true features. “Knowing what I did of your habits, however, this appeared to be the mostly likely venue in which to secure a private interview with you.”
Komananov was not impressed by the American’s ingenuity or explanations. “Cheap theatrics!” she sneered disparagingly. “If you think that your morbid ploy gained you any sort of psychological advantage over me, you are profoundly mistaken.” She warily eyed the polished silver wand holding her hostage. Its compact size did not trick her into underestimating the apparent weapon; KGB assassins, as she well [345] knew, often fired deadly poison darts from mechanisms as small as or smaller than the American’s fountain pen. “What do you want with me?” she asked defiantly
Crossing the distance between them with a single stride, the disguised American pulled open her greatcoat and calmly frisked her for weapons, coming away with her loaded Makarov pistol. Satisfied that she had been effectively disarmed, he stepped back and regarded her soberly. “I have reason to believe, Colonel, that you and others in the military and intelligence hierarchies are plotting against Mr. Gorbachev, and may intend to take advantage of the summit meeting in Reykjavik to stage a governmental coup in his absence.”
How does he know this? Komananov wondered anxiously. She silently cursed whoever had leaked even a hint of the operation to the Americans, and promised herself that, should she survive this encounter, she would track down the informer and see to it that they paid for their treachery. “I do not know what you are referring to,” she stated flatly. “I am a faithful servant of both the State and the Party.”
The American sighed wearily. “Please, Colonel, do not waste our time dissembling.” He nodded at the attaché case gripped in her hand. “Kindly allow me to inspect the contents of your case.”
“Nyet”, she said. Under no circumstances would she allow the foreign agent to peruse the top-secret documents in her case. “It is locked,” she informed him, rattling the sturdy chain binding the leather case to her wrist. “I do not have the key.”
“A flimsy lie, Colonel,” the American observed. “And hardly an issue in any case.” The silver pen hummed briefly and an invisible beam of force snapped apart the chain midway between the case and her arm, causing Komananov to gasp out loud. The American adjusted the settings on his weapon, then fired at the case itself. To her dismay, the KGB officer heard the lock click open.
“No more obstructionist tactics, Colonel,” the American instructed her. He gestured toward the sturdy catafalque that had previously held Lenin’s body, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. “Please place the case down upon the top of the bier, then step away from the platform.”
[346] Despite the danger at hand, to both herself and, more important, the operation, Komananov had to admire the capabilities of the imposter’s pen-shaped weapon. A most versatile tool, she thought enviously. One I would be happy to add to my own arsenal.
Reluctantly complying with the American’s demands, she relinquished the briefcase, laying it flat upon the velvet cushions of the bier as instructed. “Hold on,” he amended his directions, before she could back away from the catafalque. Twin antennae sprang from the sides of the silver pen and he quickly waved the device at the supine case, as though scanning it for hidden booby traps, while still keeping the colonel herself within range of the weapon. The pen beeped electronically three or four times, but apparently detected nothing amiss. Satisfied, the American nodded and gestured for Komananov to step aside, which she did quite unwillingly. This is a disaster, she despaired. The entire operation could be in danger!
As Komananov looked on in distress, her extreme anxiety hidden behind a stony, tight-lipped expression, the American lifted the lid of the unlocked attaché case and began inspecting the contents, rifling through sheaves of classified documents. What he found clearly shocked him. “By the Aegis,” he murmured under his breath, his attention momentarily captured by the secrets contained in the top-secret papers, “this is worse than I imagined.”
Komananov saw an
opportunity. While the startled American spy was distracted, she reached up and brutally yanked the earring from her right ear, disregarding the jolt of pain from her torn lobe. She hurled the phony piece of jewelry onto the hard concrete floor, then averted her eyes as the earring exploded in a blinding explosion of high-intensity light. Even though she looked away, her arm thrown rapidly over her eyes, the incandescent flare burned at the periphery of her vision, causing blue spots to appear at the corners of her eyes.
Unprepared, the American was caught off guard by the flash. He staggered backward, clutching his eyes, effectively blinded for one full minute—just as Komananov had planned. Hearing him gasp in pain, she kicked backward at the sound. The cleats of her left boot slammed hard into the man’s chest, knocking him back against the [347] unyielding iron bier. He grunted loudly, the wind smacked out of him, but managed to hold on to his invaluable silver pen, which hummed as he fired blindly, missing Komananov, who ducked beneath the invisible beam to grab onto the man’s trigger arm, twisting it roughly until the cunningly disguised weapon flew from his fingers, landing with a clatter a few meters away. That’s better, Komananov thought, smirking in satisfaction. Now they were both unarmed.
Despite the gray in his hair, the American was surprisingly strong. He swung at her head with his free hand, but the well-trained KGB agent evaded the blow, then jabbed her knee into his unprotected abdomen, causing the man to double over in pain. Tears leaked from his watery gray eyes, which were still feeling the effects of the miniature flashbomb, making the orangish greasepaint on his cheeks streak and run. Clasping her hands together to form a double fist, she clubbed the back of his head with all her strength, driving him face first onto the floor. She then kicked him in the jaw for good measure. Take that! she thought vindictively, avenging her prior humiliation.
With astonishing fortitude, the battered imposter tried to climb up onto his knees, but the relentless colonel subdued him by kicking him viciously in the ribs with the steel-tipped toe of her boot. “Down!” she ordered the American as she plucked a pair of regulation army handcuffs from the pocket of her coat and chained his hands behind his back before reclaiming her trusty Makarov. “Do not move, American,” she warned him, holding the gun to his head. Blood dripped from her ripped earlobe, which stung mercilessly; still, it was enormously satisfying to turn the tables on the arrogant Yankee who had possessed the gall and the temerity to impersonate a revered Russian hero. Keeping the muzzle of the Makarov steadily pointed at the American, she backed away from the prisoner, looking for his fallen weapon. Our technicians and armorers will definitely want a look at that device, she knew. Now then, where did it go?