by J A Heaton
The Greatest Game
A Daniel Knox Thriller Book One
J.A. Heaton
Flannel and Flashlight Press
Contents
Preface
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
End Matter
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
1
Former East Berlin.
January 2, 2002.
Unknown to Ramon, the dead man had already cheated death three times because of the secret he bore. He had not been able to cheat death the fourth.
“That could have been a lot easier and faster, my friend,” the man who went by Ramon said to the corpse lying on the ground. He spoke the words in their native language, Uzbek.
Ramon smoked his cigarette as he contemplated the rest of his plan. He would be out of the EU before anybody would discover Rustam’s body. While the authorities would contemplate how deeply they wanted to investigate the death of a vagrant from Central Asia, Ramon would be on to the next part of his plan. Besides, the police would probably be glad to be rid of a man like Rustam.
Between Rustam’s growing incoherence and sheer stubbornness—Ramon recalled how Rustam panicked when he spoke to him in their native Uzbek—it took nearly three days to extract the location from Rustam’s mind. Ramon couldn’t believe his luck when Rustam revealed not only the vault’s location but also how to open it. But after Ramon had the information, Ramon had to kill Rustam. Nobody else could learn what Ramon had pried out of Rustam’s mind. America couldn’t know what had happened. If events unfolded as Ramon planned, historians would later consider 9/11 a shot across the bow.
After his last puff, Ramon smashed his cigarette butt into the ground. He would have to buy more Camels before he went back to Afghanistan. Ironically, he loved American Camels and hoped that after he and his brother destroyed the West, Camels could still be in production. Ramon knew that would be a reality within a year.
The easy part was over. Now Ramon had to reenter Afghanistan to uncover what the Soviets had left behind in his homeland years ago.
The Kremlin, Moscow.
September 15, 1983. 10am.
General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Yuri Andropov, hated meeting with the Politburo on any occasion. But he knew he was going to despise this meeting. He feared he wasn’t going to get his way even though he was the General Secretary.
Previously, as head of the KGB, he had grown accustomed to doing what he wanted. But he couldn’t resist the siren call to power, and the untimely death of his predecessor gave him exactly what he wanted. Andropov was General Secretary, the most powerful man, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think it was without its dangers.
For years, the Politburo had operated in unison, but not because everybody agreed and got along. Matters were proposed, discussed, and debated outside official meetings. Members made their allegiances and broke them behind each other’s backs. The result was that by the time the meeting actually took place, the agenda was set, and all matters were agreed upon. Disagreeing during a Politburo meeting could be dangerous. More dangerous still for a Politburo member was not knowing he was on the wrong side of an issue and only finding out too late.
Typically, the aged men would sit around the table in the Council of Ministers building, smoking as if they hadn’t noticed the high death rate among their comrade politicians of late. Many smoked Western cigarettes, as was their privilege in the worker’s paradise that was the Soviet Union. Outwardly, they were all confident that communism would win and take over the world, perhaps in their lifetimes. It was inevitable, despite the challenges in places like Afghanistan, and then, of course, in the West. If any had doubts, they would never voice them.
Inwardly, Andropov did not think communism’s victory was inevitable. He had seen too much in the KGB to the contrary. Andropov had floated a hypothetical scenario during a previous Politburo meeting that, he believed, could provide a rapid victory to smooth the progress of communism. Some thought he was initially joking. His plan went against policy. Andropov said he had heard somebody else had first mentioned it. Others thought he was laying a trap. His chief political opponent, Chernenko, averred through his secretary that such a foolhardy plan would only be necessary if they lacked full faith and confidence in the capability of the Soviet Army in Afghanistan. But, of course, they all knew their army would be victorious.
“You, of all people, should know that conventional force is adequate,” Chernenko’s secretary had concluded. The secretary was referring to Andropov’s involvement in crushing the Hungarian Uprising in 1956 and squelching the Prague Spring in 1968.
Only a few had agreed with Andropov’s suggestion. He wasn’t sure if he should push the issue with the Politburo after that one meeting. The votes were uncertain, and he didn’t want to spend all his political capital on this one matter.
Once this day’s meeting began, Andropov looked about the room, at first gauging everybody’s responses to the meeting. But before long, Andropov’s mind wandered. The process and these idiots on the Politburo were insufferable. Drinking tea and smoking was all he could do to endure. Items on the agenda were checked off, and decisions were being rubber stamped as expected: food production, relations with Eastern Europe, and so on.
The meeting did not take a sideways turn until the very end.
“Our General Secretary has been so quiet,” Chernenko said, referring to Andropov, “that I wonder if he has something else. He has the position, so he can add to the agenda right now if he would like. I’m sure we would all agree. Do you have anything more to discuss?”
Andropov blew the smoke out slowly. There it was. Chernenko was inviting, even challenging, Andropov to raise his idea about Afghanistan to the whole Politburo.
Did Chernenko know something Andropov didn’t?
How would Andropov, the General Secretary, the most powerful man in the Soviet Union, appear if the Politburo rejected his plan?
Andropov knew Chernenko was signaling to Andropov that though Andropov was mighty in title, he was not, in actuality, powerful.
Andropov paused and considered what he might say if he were to make the proposal.
“I have nothing to add, good comrade,” Andropov said coolly. He had decided not to take the bait. “Only due to the excellence of all around me who serve the party can I remain so quiet during a meeting.”
And so, the meeting adjourned. Some didn’t leave until they had finished their cigarettes. Andropov avoided eye contact with Chernenko. He couldn’t hasten out, but he didn’t want to linger. He shared how his family was doing with Gorbachev, a man who even Andropov had to admit held some promise to bring change, but then Andropov left.
As Andropov was accustomed to doing what he wanted when in the KGB, he had already selected his most faithful man in the KGB to do the job. Once his KGB man was done, Andropov would only have to wait. After the war in Afghan
istan went as Andropov feared it would, then he would reveal that he had carried out his plan personally. Everybody would praise him when his preparations would save the War in Afghanistan.
Andropov got into the backseat of his car. His best man in the KGB was waiting for him as planned. The man went only by Misha, which added to his mystique within and outside of the KGB. Andropov explained to Misha his mission as they sped away from the Council of Ministers building.
“You will need to work quickly,” Andropov concluded. “Take this letter to show anybody who questions you or is in your way after you leave Moscow. If anybody asks why you are leaving, say I gave you leave and that you are visiting your mistress.” Andropov knew no man would question such an excuse.
Misha nodded with understanding as he took an envelope from Andropov.
“And remember,” Andropov warned, “nobody can know what you have done.”
Andropov shared this with a heavy heart. This man would surely succeed in his mission, but then he couldn’t be left alive. The basement of Dzerzhinsky Square would claim yet another innocent victim. Andropov sighed, resigned to the fact that there was no other way. The secret would die with his most trusted KGB man.
Andropov didn’t know that he himself would carry his secret to the grave only months later.
2
Washington D.C.
January 9, 2002.
Daniel smiled as he listened to the recording in his cubicle. Although the room had an office-like atmosphere, it was a new weapon against the terrorists who perpetrated 9/11. Specialists of many stripes, contracted by the CIA to provide analysis, filled rows of cubicles.
Daniel played the recording back multiple times. His voice recorder was set to playback the clip in a loop. The language was one the CIA and American military had little expertise in. But Daniel was the expert, having lived in an Uzbek village in the mountains near Mazar-i-Sharif in Afghanistan for linguistic research, followed by further study in Uzbekistan when the Taliban grew too powerful. Daniel remembered well the day when the Taliban got too close. But right now, this recording was taking him back to the simpler days of academic research and the people he had met in Afghanistan.
The recording was nothing special, and he would report it as such. Men meeting for tea and bread, exchanging greetings and pleasantries, getting news on the family, negotiating for grazing land, all of it standard stuff, but it was how they said it all. Even though Daniel understood all dialects of Uzbek and could grasp related languages, nothing was quite like hearing the exact same dialect of where he first learned the ancient tongue. Every annunciation and vocabulary choice was beautiful.
The pile of material waiting for his translation filled his “to do” file on his computer. He sometimes felt a large pile of paper on his desk would have been more comforting. Reports from his peers asked for input on Uzbek since so much communication was mixed: Russian, Tajik, Uzbek, Dari, Pashto, Arabic, and the list went on.
Listening to the recording again only put him further behind in his work, but it was worth it to him. Daniel checked the source. It was recorded by a patrol invited in for tea in Afghanistan. They had recorded it. At least the report was short. Nothing in it besides nice small talk. No suspicion of coded messages. Daniel completed his report and submitted it. He grimaced as he went on to the next translation task in his queue. He needed a break; only about .01% of his translation work would impact the War on Terror, but when it did, it could change the world, and he knew that. He wouldn’t allow himself to get bogged down in hopelessness. He needed to rest his mind before he continued his hunt for that .01%.
After a glance at the phone on his desk and a Post-It note with his scribbled reminder, he picked up the receiver. Operation BLOODHOUND needed attention. He slumped down in his cubicle. He didn’t want Officer Carter questioning him about Operation BLOODHOUND, or why he was so far behind in translation.
After the secretary directed his call, Daniel asked for news. Somebody else was put on the line. Daniel listened. It was not good news.
“I need this,” Daniel pleaded on the phone as he peeked up and out of his cubicle. Officer Carter was on the move, making sure her minions of experts and academics were earning their pay with the CIA. “No, I can, and will give it the attention it is due,” Daniel reassured the person on the other end. “I know. I’ll have to get my hands dirty. Yes, I can handle that.”
After listening some more, Daniel added, “That is only a temporary setback, and—”
But the line had gone dead.
Although the previous Uzbek recording from his last report had lifted his spirits, the challenge of Operation BLOODHOUND sent him crashing back to reality.
“Have you found something?” The icy voice of Officer Carter made Daniel jump in his seat.
Daniel didn’t answer for a second, hoping she wouldn’t ask about Operation BLOODHOUND. “No,” Daniel said as convincingly as he could. Officer Carter plopped a folder on top of Daniel’s desk, leaving the phone call in the past.
“This was sent over from that other guy who knows Uzbek,” she explained. “He says you’re the only one who knows Uzbek well enough to read poetry. The file contains a sample.”
The other guy was Max, an old Peace Corps volunteer who knew some Uzbek, but mostly Russian. He had a full-time position in the CIA.
“Poetry?” Daniel asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I love that stuff, but you and I both know we need to catch terrorists. Most terrorists are a little lower on the Maslow hierarchy of needs. They aren’t looking to self-actualize through poetry. They’re looking to survive.”
“We’re on the same page with that, but hear me out,” the boss said. “The poetry is from a murder victim in Berlin. Messy.”
“Is this top priority?” Daniel asked. “I’m going through the material from Central Asia as fast as I can. That’s where the bad guys are.”
“Max said it was top priority. He couldn’t explain, but apparently others are looking more deeply into this murder case.”
“I guess I owe him one,” Daniel said as amicably as possible. “I’ll start on it soon.”
Without saying more, Officer Carter continued her rounds, cracking the metaphorical whip over the CIA contractors in their cubicles, hoping one of them would find a lead, anything that could give the CIA and the United States an edge in the War on Terror.
Daniel felt relief she hadn’t asked about Operation BLOODHOUND. That would have been embarrassing. Even though he had washed out of the military short of special ops training before graduate school—certainly to his father’s disappointment—Daniel knew Carter recognized he was made of something tough. But this rejection, coupled with the rejection he’d received in his personal life—his animal adoption application immediately came to mind—made him question his work.
I just need to catch a terrorist to make this work schedule worth it, Daniel thought to himself in an attempt to recover from the rejection. After setting up a meeting with Max the next day, Daniel continued plowing through his translation work, relentlessly pursuing the .01% that would save American lives and end that of terrorists.
Daniel pulled into his mother’s driveway on his bicycle soon after dinnertime. He usually worked late and riding his bicycle got him to where he wanted to go more slowly than his motorcycle, but he always welcomed the extra time on his bicycle. It gave him time to think.
Daniel’s mother, like many women her age in the area, lived alone in a nice D.C. suburban house suitable for a family. That was one reason Daniel had moved in with her. While he knew there would be some perks, there were also some drawbacks.
“Why do you have this?” Daniel’s mother said while holding up several yards of shiny, silver fabric.
“It was supposed to be a gift, but it didn’t work out,” Daniel said. “Why are you going through my stuff anyway?”
“My house, my rules, and I need to know what my loveable CIA agent is bringing under my roof,” his mother said. “Let me guess: the gift w
as for that girl over there, was it?”
Daniel didn’t answer.
“You still upset about your Ph.D. thesis?” his mother said, digging in more.
At least she changed the topic, Daniel thought.
“You need to get back to Afghanistan and finish that field research,” she continued.
“I’m never going to do that,” Daniel told his mother as she folded towels. She always loved folding towels perfectly. Daniel watched because he never did it right. “In case you didn’t notice, there’s a war going on there.”
“Don’t be all touchy just because you’d have to work with the military. It’s not as if things were perfectly peaceful when you went before. Whatever issues you have with your father, washing out of the military—or whatever happened—you need to get over your military aversion.”
After another sharp towel fold, she assured him with a lowered voice, “I’ve gotten over your father.”
Daniel rolled his eyes. And then he tried to change the subject.
“Anything you need help with around the house, like a leaky faucet or something that needs tightening?” he asked hopefully.
“Let me see… what can you help me with? I know, you could finally get over that other girl, move on, and at least go on one date with somebody new. I’m throwing this fabric away.”
“It’s not that easy,” Daniel said.