The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  “We ‘raided’, and excuse the word, but it’s descriptive, these organizations for two reasons. First, we needed the personnel, but more important, we wanted fresh people with fresh ideas and no preconceived notions.”

  Lazarus Keesley paused and glanced around. The room was full of blank stares. Obviously, Secretary of Defense Van Dyne hadn’t briefed any of the Air Force generals. Lazarus’ speech had clearly blind-sided them.

  “Now for a status report,” Lazarus said, reaching into his tweed jacket and pulling out a notebook.

  “We have already added twenty new security officers at Groom Lake and fifty at Nellis. These people are not Air Force people, although they were told to dress and act as though they were. It is our hope that they will see where we—and I make that clearly ‘we’ because this is not just an Air Force problem—went wrong in our security measures. In addition, over a thousand other people, both military and civilian, are checking and rechecking every aspect of everyone associated with this project.”

  Lazarus closed his notebook and slid it back into his jacket. “I expect that I will be making regular reports at these meetings until this matter is resolved. Are there any questions?”

  “Yes, Lazarus, I have one.” The president had a puzzled look. “Who’s the officer in charge of Velvet Rainbow? I vaguely remember some talk of a change in command there, but I was preoccupied with the summit in Moscow at the time.”

  “That’s correct, sir,” Lazarus answered. “General Lambert Twilling retired and was replaced by General William Winslow.”

  Panic appeared on the president’s face. “Isn’t he Senator Winslow’s brother?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lazarus replied when he saw the reasons for the president’s concern. “Fortunately, he is—a younger brother, I believe.”

  “What do you mean, ‘fortunately, he is’? Good god, man, if this ever got to Pete Winslow, it would be all over the press in a day.”

  Lazarus smirked. “I doubt it, sir. What better way to keep the bastard baby hidden behind the woodpile than have your chief opposition candidate’s brother involved?”

  Colonel-General Grigori Pavlovich Sechenov at last found the time to return to his office in theDerevnya , the Village, as the headquarters for the SVR is called by its inhabitants. The building, located southeast of Moscow, is ultra-modern, built in the shape of a three-pointed star made of stainless steel, glass and polished white marble.

  In contrast, Grigori Sechenov’s offices belonged to the mid-seventeenth century, having been inspired by the Château de Versailles. A large crystal chandelier dominated the frieze-encrusted plaster ceiling. Raw red silk cloth covered the walls, highlighting the richly carved and gilded doors. Gold sconces placed along the wall illuminated the room wherever the light from the chandelier proved insufficient. Several large Chinese rugs covered most of the hand-inlaid parquet floor. The furniture were all Louis XIV originals, each piece lovingly restored to its original seventeenth-century splendor.

  Ring. Grigori stared at his telephone. The telephone rang twice before he answered it.

  “Allo!”he grumbled brusquely, as though he were irritated by the interruption. He listened to Tanya, his secretary.

  “Da,” Grigori answered, this time in a more civil tone. “Send him in.”

  Seconds later, the twin doors to his office opened and Major- General Yakov Makarovich Sakharovsky, ten years and two ranks Grigori Sechenov’s junior, entered cautiously.

  Bald and fat from the good life, General Sakharovsky glanced nervously around, like a cat entering a room for the first time. Finally noticing Grigori Sechenov, Yakov Sakharovsky threw himself to attention and marched as smartly as his bulk permitted to the front of Grigori’s desk. There he stopped and saluted with a muffled click of his heels.

  Grigori Sechenov ignored him, concentrating on the document on his desk. A moment later, he casually returned the salute without looking up.

  “Please take a seat, General,” Grigori said idly while he turned a page. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

  Yakov Sakharovsky obeyed, sitting carefully on an antique chair as though it were made of eggs. At first, he merely rested his backside on the front edge of the chair, barely placing any weight on it. As it became clear that the chair was stronger than it appeared, he then sat on it properly, making himself as comfortable as he could in Grigori Sechenov’s presence.

  General Sechenov turned another page and read it, seemingly oblivious to Yakov Sakharovsky’s existence. General Sakharovsky laid his briefcase at his feet and began to study the room.

  “How was Havana?”

  “Excuse me?” Yakov Sakharovsky twisted his head quickly back toward the desk. Grigori Sechenov was staring at him icily; his hands formed into fists as they rested on top of the antique desk.

  “I said, ‘How was Havana?’” Grigori repeated.

  “Hot and muggy. They don’t have a workable air conditioner in the whole wretched country.”

  “You weren’t sent on a vacation, General,” Grigori snapped. “Did you complete your assignment?”

  “Yes, General,” Yakov Sakharovsky answered firmly, “I did.Departamento America has agreed to implementOperatsiyaIpomeya , Operation Morning Glory, as you specified. However, they insisted that they be paid one million American dollars. They demanded dollars instead of rubles.”

  “American dollars?” Grigori’s voice conveyed his incredulity.

  “Yes, General,” Yakov responded without flinching. “They claimed that they need the funds in American dollars because they would incur expenses in the United States which can only be paid in American dollars. It’s rather hard to spend Russian rubles in Las Vegas, they said.”

  Grigori glared at Sakharovsky.

  “They are being quite reasonable about it, General,” Yakov Sakharovsky continued. “They will place ten additional men in Las Vegas for up to six months to carry out Operation Morning Glory.”

  “It sounds to me like they want us to supply them with gambling money, too,” Grigori sneered.

  “It would cost us at least twice as much to send our own people in for this operation, General,” Yakov Sakharovsky asserted firmly. “Besides, the Cubans have the advantage of looking like the Latino population. And should anything go wrong, it would be the Cubans who get the blame.”

  Grigori Sechenov leaned back and nodded in agreement. Although his external expression was impassive, if not disapproving, he was actually quite pleased with General Sakharovsky.

  “When can they put their people in place?” Grigori asked.

  “They already have them in Las Vegas,” Yakov replied. “I told them that we’d agree to their payment terms only if they could have their people in place by today. They said that they would have no problem doing that.”

  Grigori reached out to the pile of folders on his desk and selected a new one.

  “Very well, Yakov Makarovich,” he told him sternly, “you have done well, but next time wait for my approval before committing any hard currencies. What aboutOperatsiyaBronirolovo Kulaka , Operation Armored Fist?”

  “That, General,” Yakov Sakharovsky announced, “is ahead of schedule. Moreover, we were most fortunate. The location of theNew Babylon cannon is an ideal location. It’s about one hundred and fifty kilometers from Turkey. If I may show you on a map?”

  “Please do.”

  Yakov opened the briefcase he’d placed by his feet and withdrew two maps. One was of Iraq; the other was a field commander’s map of the area around the Dukan Reservoir in northwestern Iraq. Yakov Sakharovsky laid the map of Iraq on the desk and pointed to a red dot.

  “Here is the site of Operation Armored Fist, approximately ninety kilometers northeast of the Iraqi city of Kirkuk, General. It’s a bowl- shaped valley surrounded by high hills called the Gomazal Valley. It is an ideal site for several reasons.”

  “But it’s just forty or fifty kilometers to the Iranian border,” Sechenov protested in dismay when he saw just how close the borde
r was.

  General Sakharovsky laughed. “It is also in the most mountainous terrain of Iraq. Only mountain goats can get through that terrain and any aerial assault would be blown out of the sky by our missiles. It’s safe enough from the Iranians. In any case, the Iranians are certainly not going to permit the Americans to use their airspace. The only way the Americans can attack is from Turkey. That is one of the beauties of the location. In fact, it’s the ideal location for Operation Armored Fist. Besides being defensible, it’s already a dedicated training ground for Iraqi mountain troops. We didn’t have to relocate the inhabitants— which nowadays would be a problem.”

  “Have the Iraqis agreed to turn it over for our exclusive use?” Sechenov eyed Sakharovsky.

  “Da,” he responded energetically. “That was part of the deal for us to finish building theirNew Babylon cannon for them. We control the security of the area until the cannon is operational.”

  “Continue your briefing.”

  “Please notice that there is a railroad line right in front of the valley’s mouth and since the valley was once used as a quarry, it already has a railroad spur into it--even though it needed some minor repair. However, the most important feature is the distance to the Turkish border. The valley is far enough away from the boarder to be defensible from hostile aircraft, yet close enough to be the only reasonable approach for them to the valley.”

  “I agree, Yasha,” Grigori said, using Yakov’s nickname while he examined the map. “It does seem to be the ideal location. You’ve done well. When do we start the second part of Operation Armored Fist?”

  Yakov Sakharovsky grinned at Grigori Sechenov. “General, I took the liberty of starting work while you were unavailable. I’ve already gotten Field Marshal Dobrovolsky to commit the 195th Guards Motorized Infantry to secure the area and the 203rd Construction Battalion to do the actual construction work. And, with your permission, I’ve also asked the MBRF to assign the 45th Border Guards Battalion to help secure the construction site. Would you like to see the details of the security arrangements around Armored Fist?”

  “I might as well,” Grigori laughed, “even though there seems to be nothing else left for me to do!” Pleased by Yakov’s initiative, he leaned back and watched while Yakov Sakharovsky folded the first map and then spread out the smaller but more detailed map of the area. It had been heavily marked-up in a variety of bright colors, showing the locations of various military outposts as well as access routes to the valley.

  “This is the valley we are using, General.” Yakov moved his finger around in a circle. “The outer perimeter will be guarded by the 195th Motorized Infantry. They are being deployed along these roads surrounding the hills that form the valley. It’s a free-fire zone three hundred meters deep. Inside that zone, the 45th Border Guards will have responsibility to keep everyone, including men from the 195th Motorized Infantry, from entering the inner zone. They will patrol the area with dogs specially trained to find smugglers. Here, and here, are two separate lines of mine fields and barbed wire fence.”

  “Excellent, Yasha,” Grigori pronounced while he examined the map. “There isn’t any way for the Americans to sneak a spy in to see what we are doing or to pinpointNew Babylon , is there?”

  Yakov Sakharovsky shook his head, “No, General, there isn’t. The plan is foolproof.”

  “So it would seem,” Grigori noted while he handed the map back to Yakov. “When do we put the roof on Operation Armored Fist?”

  “Very soon, General,” Yakov replied while folding his map. “One or two days at the most. It might already be in place.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The knock at her door surprised Madeline by its gentleness. She’d been expecting a summons to General Winslow’s office all afternoon, yet it hadn’t come until now, at dinnertime. She groaned while she pulled the belt of her bathrobe tight and glanced around the room.

  “Damn!” she muttered, “why the hell did they have to wait until I just got out of the shower! Where’s that damn brush?”

  Madeline spotted it on the dinette table, quickly grabbed it, and began brushing her hair. She’d just finished blow-drying her hair. True to her earlier promised to herself, she’d spent part of the afternoon taking a ten-mile ride on the exercise bike in her living room.

  The knock on the door was repeated.

  “Coming!” she shouted. Madeline slipped the hairbrush into the pocket of her bathrobe and then cautiously opened the door a crack and peeked through.

  “It’s you!” she exclaimed in shock. “They sent you of all people to get me!”

  “Nobody sent me,” Colonel Rodell replied softly. “I’ve come on my own. I’ve come to apologize.”

  Dumbfounded, she opened the door and found Colonel Rodell dressed in his Class A uniform, standing stiffly at attention, holding a bouquet of roses in one hand, with a box of chocolates tucked under his other arm.

  “Fred Kelder put you up to this,” she accused.

  “Nobody but me put me up to this, ma’am,” he replied formally, his back parade-ground straight. “What I said to you this afternoon was demeaning, derisive, vulgar, and just plain wrong, ma’am. You are a lady, and you should have been treated like one. If you’d excuse my language one last time, I acted like an ass. I have also brought tokens of my apology and my esteem for you and your contributions to this project.”

  He handed her the roses and chocolates with a military fastidiousness that almost made her laugh. A smile came to her face.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked curiously. “I thought you’d be trying to get me thrown off the project.”

  “Thrown off?” Jerry Rodell’s voice conveyed his shock at the thought. “No, ma’am, I have no such thought. As for my motivations for apologizing, I have been raised to be a gentleman, although I often fail my training.”

  Puzzled by his unexpected behavior, Madeline tucked the chocolates under one arm and touched the roses with her fingertips. They were fresh, very fresh.

  “Wherever did you find these out here in this godforsaken place?” she inquired.

  “I flew down to Nellis this afternoon, ma’am,” he responded stiffly. “I had to go to downtown Vegas to find them.”

  “Thank you.” She replied with a gracious nod. He turned to leave.

  “Wait,” she called. “I think I owe you an apology too.”

  “It isn’t necessary, ma’am.” He stopped several feet from the door. Only the bottom half of his uniform was lit by the light coming through the open door.

  “I think it is,” she maintained. “And I’m afraid that if I don’t, they’re going to throw me off the project.”

  “Never,” he insisted. “I won’t permit it.”

  She blinked in disbelief. “Did I hear what I think I heard?”

  “Cleo needs you,” he answered. “Any fool can see that, ma’am.”

  “Please don’t call me ma’am—my name’s Madeline, Colonel. And I think we had better come to some understanding about our, er, relationship. It’s disrupting the whole project.”

  “I quite agree,” he said and then, after a pause, added, “Madeline.”

  She felt a sudden chill when she realized that they were standing in the winter night’s chilly air. “We can talk now, Colonel, if you have a few minutes.”

  “Yes, Madeline,” he replied with noticeable difficulty, “I do. I think the sooner we settle this, the better.”

  “Good,” she declared as she started to shiver. “Then come in, I’m freezing in this doorway.”

  “All right,” Jerry agreed as he took off his cap and entered. Compared to his place, Madeline’s trailer was palatial. The large living room was decorated in modern but comfortable furniture. At the far end was a kitchen area with a dinette set.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Colonel.” She closed the door and went to the kitchen. “I should get these flowers into water right away.”

  “The name’s Jerry, Madeline.”

  She paus
ed from unwrapping the roses and saw his smile. “Fair enough, Jerry. Why don’t you warm yourself by the fire, you must be freezing from standing out in the cold.”

  Jerry Rodell glanced around and saw the modern cone-shaped metal fireplace standing in one corner. A gas flame danced over a bed of white sand. He crossed the room and had just begun warming his hands when he heard Madeline’s humming.

  “You sound like Cleo,” he commented.

  “What?”

  He laughed. “You probably think I’m crazy, but she hums like you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” he said, turning toward her. “I heard her hum this afternoon while we were coming back from the mission.”

  Madeline cocked her head, looked at him and then shrugged her shoulders. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t pick it up from me. I like to hum. I guess I’ve always hummed.”

  She adjusted one of the roses in the vase. “That looks nice,” she said. “Have you had dinner yet?”

  “Why, no.”

  “Stay for dinner,” she suggested. “We can bury the hatchet over some shrimp I have in the fridge.”

  “Only if you let me cook,” he insisted while he unbuttoned his jacket and relaxed.

  “You cook?”

  “Better than I can fly. I wanted to be a chef when I was a kid. We were living near New Orleans at the time, and I learned a lot about Cajun cooking.”

  “Sounds good to me,” she agreed. “I can hardly boil water.”

  Jerry chuckled and crossed the living room to the kitchen. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of one of the dinette chairs.

  “Damn,” he heard Madeline curse when she cut her finger on a tin can she was trying to open. He turned and found her sucking her finger, with a schoolgirl grin. She seemed so young, innocent and vulnerable. The faint scent of her bath soap smelled sweet.

  “Hurt yourself?”

  “Nah, just a nick. It’s hardly bleeding. See.” She held it out for him to examine.

  On impulse, he kissed her cut finger. “There—that will make it all better,” he quipped. He peered into her eyes; they were soft and pleading, like a fawn’s. She seemed so vulnerable, unprotected, innocent. Her perfume was sweet and fragrant, telling him of her need.