The Shield of Darius

by Allen Kent

  At 10:38 the airborne electronic warfare specialist reported three other boats leaving the Hashtpar harbor, apparently in pursuit, and twenty minutes later, additional boats from Bandar Anzali and Astara. In Makhachkala, Col. Topchbashi launched an Mi-28 helicopter gunship to overfly the fleeing boat, and at 11:27 the pilot reported he had located the trawler on radar but could see nothing on the black water below without illuminating the surface. The boat was running lights-out and was in neutral waters, but within fifteen kilometers of the Azeri coast. Col. Topchbashi ordered the gunship to remain dark and the Saratov to close to within three kilometers and stand by.

  For nearly an hour the Soviets watched the sea chase, seeing that one of the launches out of Bandar Anzali was an Iranian gunboat with twice the speed of the fleeing trawler. Topchbashi estimated that the Iranian craft would reach the fishing boat within minutes of the time it passed an extension of the Azeri border, and ordered the helicopter to move to within strike range.

  At 12:15 the call came from the orbiting surveillance plane.

  “He’s beyond the Iranian border. The gunboat is within four kilometers and must have the Saratov on radar. Looks like it’s trying to beat us in.”

  “Stop the gunboat and seize the other vessel,” Topchbashi ordered. The Saratov’s two huge diesel engines thundered to full throttle, lifting the craft from the water onto streamlined bow-mounted foils and accelerating to thirty knots. Above, the attack helicopter swept ahead, illuminating the sea below with a powerful, sweeping spotlight.

  On the deck of the small fishing trawler, a lone man fell back against the cabin wall as the whirring beat of five rotor blades sounded overhead and a crushing downdraft washed him against the bare planks. The helicopter dropped nearly to the sea, charging the beam of the approaching Iranian boat whose light quickly died as it wheeled and fled. In front of the trawler, the Caspian suddenly lighted like day as two blinding spotlights from the Saratov illuminated a fifty foot circle around the boat. The helicopter made another pass, then rose to two hundred feet to hover overhead as the sleek gray hull of the Russian hydrofoil eased closer, a stone’s throw off the trawler’s port side.

  As the man crouched against the cabin of the struggling fishing boat, a black uniformed sailor stepped into the lighted circle on the deck of the Russian craft and jerked back swiftly with a raised fist. Throttle back! The man rose, looked uncertainly at the black water, then up at the hammer and sickle emblazoned on the prow of the launch, and stepped down into the cabin to kill the engine.

  In the radio room at his headquarters in Makhachkala, Col. Topchbashi stood expectantly beside a receiver. After ten minutes of silence, the report came.

  “Makhachkala, this is the Saratov. The Iranian gunboat has turned back and we have boarded the trawler. There is one man aboard. He claims to be an American and says he has escaped from an Iranian prison. He asks for asylum.”

  Col. Topchbashi leaned over the radio operator’s shoulder and activated the mike.

  “Saratov, repeat. Did you say ‘American?’”

  “Affirmative, Sir. He claims to be an American civilian who was being held hostage. Awaiting your instructions.”

  “Bring him in,” the Colonel said.

  “And the trawler?”

  “Leave it adrift. They’ll pick it up. Then they won’t be able to say we are holding one of their boats.”

  “Understand, Makhachkala. Have a doctor ready. I think the man has been shot. He is in very bad condition.”

  Col. Topchbashi straightened and rubbed his chin briskly with the knuckles of his right hand.

  “Keep this to yourself,” he said to the radioman and walked into his office. Two telephones sat side-by-side at the front corner of his desk. He lifted the receiver of the one with the broad yellow band around its base and dialed three numbers.

  “This is Topchbashi,” he said sharply. “Connect me with Naval Headquarters in Moscow immediately. This is top priority.”

  Ben lay on a low bench in the cabin of the Saratov and listened to the engines reverse, then return to a cautious forward as the boat slipped into an enclosed dock. It bumped softly against a pier and he heard running feet and men shouting as they tied the hydrofoil to its mooring. A sailor stepped down into the cabin and jerked his head toward the deck.

  “Come,” he said in clipped English.

  As Ben climbed stiffly from the gray-hulled gunboat, he was immediately surrounded by brown-uniformed troops carrying automatic weapons. A stout round-faced man in civilian dress and a plain young woman with dark short-cropped hair walked briskly forward to greet him with curt nods. The woman looked as though she had been roused from sleep to meet the launch.

  “This is Col. Topchbashi, Commander of Soviet Naval Operations in the Caspian Sea,” she said brusquely. “My name is Anna. I will interpret for you.” Her accent showed the softening influence of British training. “Please follow me,” she said.

  They led him through the line of curious guards to a plain black sedan and drove five blocks through corrugated metal buildings to a long single story block structure with high curtained windows, leading him inside without speaking. The building smelled of disinfectant and the brightly lit hallways were painted a sterile pale green.

  Anna introduced the thin, serious-faced man waiting beside a plain wooden table which appeared to serve as a reception desk for the infirmary.

  “This is Doctor Dorochov. He will look you over and see if you need medical attention. Col. Topchbashi will meet with you tomorrow after you have slept.” Topchbashi again nodded perfunctorily and left them with the doctor.

  “This way.” Dr. Dorochov led them down a green hallway to a small room that immediately reminded Ben of the Tehran hotel; white walls, two plain beds with side tables and straight backed chairs, a separate bathroom.

  “Undress please.” Dorochov’s English rolled through the “r” in “dress” with the deep throaty accent of a native-speaking Russian. He looked at Ben expectantly, then glanced toward Anna who continued to stand in the open doorway. “We will need a few minutes alone,” he said, and she stepped stiffly back into the hall.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrible,” Ben said. Then added, “I haven’t had much to eat, have a few cuts along my neck and shoulder from a shattered window, and have a bad case of diarrhea. But this is my major problem.” He unbuttoned his shirt and gingerly peeled it away with his right hand. The doctor stepped forward to help him unwrap the stained bandage.

  “You’ve been shot.” There was little surprise in Dorochov’s voice, as though he had been forewarned and saw this kind of wound often. “The bullet is still inside.”

  Ben raised his left arm and fingered the lump beneath his chest muscle. “I don’t think it hit anything too important. At least not vital, or I’d be dead by now.”

  The doctor grunted his affirmation and examined the entry wound closely, then fingered along Ben’s side.

  “This is badly infected. Have you coughed blood?”

  Ben shook his head.

  “When did this happen?”

  “About a week ago. I’ve sort of lost track of time.”

  The doctor grunted again. “When did you last eat?”

  “Yesterday. I had some bread. But I’d only had a little bread and a few figs for four or five days before that.”

  “Have you been to toilet since you ate bread?

  “A couple of times. The last was on the boat coming in.”

  “Any blood?”

  Ben again shook his head.

  “We will give you food soon. And medicine that will help. I would like a … what do you call it? A sample? A container is in the bathroom. I will get this glass out and then we will x-ray your side. Since you are walking – and alive – this tells me it is not as bad as it could be.”

  Ben sat on one of the beds while Dorochov examined the glass cuts, carefully extracting half a dozen pieces of the shattered window. He disinfected the cuts, stretc
hed Ben on the bed to thump and prod, then sat him up again to look into his ears, eyes and throat.

  “You are thin, but otherwise very sound, especially for a man who has been shot,” he said finally. “We will check your sample and if it looks clear, I can give you some antibiotic and something to stop the diarrhea. Now, let me get a picture of your bullet.”

  Ben was x-rayed, anesthetized, and awakened to find the bullet gone and his side tightly stitched and wrapped. A set of clean clothes was on the bedside table; a heavy blue suit, full bodied white shirt with narrow collar, wide gray tie, boxer shorts, dark blue socks and black shoes. Beside the clothing he found scissors, a safety razor and an aerosol can of shaving cream. German. He was wearing a pair of thick flannel pajamas.

  He washed, surprised that he appeared to be unattended. He was expecting an I.V. and monitor of some kind. The scissors pulled as he cut away the worst of his beard and his side throbbed and burned beneath the bandages. He could feel where it had been probed. As he shaved, a taut, bony face looked back at him from the mirror and he studied it curiously, touching it as if it weren’t his own. For a moment he felt outside of himself, with the distant dreamlike sense that had overwhelmed him when he awoke in the prison room for the first time. For some reason it amused him. He was alive, and he shouldn’t be.

  “I see you are up and feeling better.” Anna stood in the bathroom doorway, startling him back to his senses.

  “I’m surprised you’re letting me up so soon. Don’t I need to convalesce?”

  “The doctor is very pleased with your condition. The bullet hit your ribs at an angle and followed them around. He has cleaned out your wound and filled you with antibiotics. You should be ready to travel. As soon as you are dressed, we will eat.”

  “Glad I’m not allergic to penicillin,” he smiled, but she didn’t seem to understand. In the infirmary cafeteria they sat alone in silence while Ben ate a bowl of what reminded him of Cream of Wheat, washing it down with strong black tea.

  “Aren’t there other patients?” Ben asked, glancing about at the rows of empty tables.

  “There are a few others. They will come later,” Anna said. “It has been a quiet time for us.” She placed a bottle of chalky gray medicine in front of him and insisted that he take two teaspoons with the meal to calm his stomach.

  They passed no one as she led him to the same black sedan and drove to Topchbashi’s office. As Ben entered, the wall clock showed that it was already past noon.

  Another man sat in a chair beside the Colonel’s desk and the two rose to meet him. Both were bright and cordial and seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

  “Have you been well cared for?” the Colonel asked through Anna.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “This is Mr. Tsapkin from Moscow. He will be taking you there tonight. We feel that Mr. Tsapkin and his officials are in a better position to help you return to your country. Today, if you are feeling up to it, we would like to hear your story.”

  As Anna had driven him to the office, Ben decided he would talk to Topchbashi. His men had saved his life, were treating him well and as far as he knew, he wasn’t involved in anything they shouldn’t know about. He’d been a hostage. What more was there to say about it?

  The Colonel and Tsapkin spent the rest of the afternoon listening to his account of events leading to the Caspian rescue. They listened intently and asked few questions. He decided they had been instructed not to. That night after a meal of warm soup and coarse brown bread, they flew him to Moscow.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Ben guessed that it was mid-morning. He had slept on the plane, been driven from the airport to a dark, two story brick building somewhere in the city, eaten some cold meat suspended in some kind of gelatin, and slept again in a comfortable bed. He now sat alone in a much larger, overly decorated office to which Mr. Tsapkin had escorted him, leaving with only a friendly nod. The office was dimly lit and musty and he sat expectantly, inspecting it for some sign of the position of the occupant. The room reminded him of the offices created for mafia dons in movies about the twenties: heavily draped and wallpapered with a striped, fake satin design. Most of the room in front of where Ben sat was filled with a huge hardwood desk. Nothing on its top but a telephone, blotter pad and small pink marble slab with two black pens sticking out of it. The desk chair was high backed in black leather and was neatly pushed beneath the edge of the mammoth piece of furniture.

  Behind him to the left toward the draped windows sat three other chairs, flower-upholstered with carved wooden legs and high rolled backs and arms, clustered about a low coffee table that held only a heavy glass ashtray. The walls on either side and the one behind him where he had entered displayed large dark landscapes in gilded frames. The wall behind the desk was bare. Judging from the desk, Ben guessed that he was about to meet someone important. Subordinates were never allowed bigger desks than bosses – in any culture. And subordinate’s desks were cluttered.

  He rose from the fourth of the flowered chairs that had been placed in front of the desk and walked to the window, pushing aside the thick, gold drapery. Louvered plastic blinds covered the glass beyond and he raised one of the slats to look down onto the street. The avenue below wouldn’t have given away the city. It was paved, with wide concrete sidewalks on either side. Though an automobile of unfamiliar design occasionally passed, no cars were parked along the street and most of the passers-by were on foot or bicycles. The buildings facing him were of the same dark, non-descript brick that could have been in almost any city. They also had curtained windows, giving them an air of empty lifelessness.

  Ben watched the people. Their clothes were plain and colorless and though it appeared warm outside, many wore sweaters. A young couple passed, the man in a poorly fitted blue suit like the one Ben wore and the woman in faded jeans and a sweat shirt that said “Cal Tech.” He wondered if she were American and resisted the urge to lift the blind and rap on the window. She didn’t look American. He wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t.

  The door to his left opened and two men in business suits entered the room, walked directly to where Ben stood beside the window and extended their hands.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sager. I am Sergey Alexeyev. I hope we have been taking good care of you.” The man’s English was only slightly accented, and his suit looked expensive and hand tailored, with a crisp white shirt and yellow-checked silk tie. He was five or six inches taller than Ben, with a solid build and gray, yellow-tinged hair that swept straight back from his broad forehead. A folded newspaper was tucked under his left arm.

  “You’ve taken very good care of me, and I am most grateful,” Ben said, shaking Alexeyev’s hand and turning to his companion. The second man was taller and slender, with rimless glasses covering intelligent eyes. He wore what was obviously a less expensive, but tastefully chosen suit and a light blue shirt, with dark tie. He carried a long cardboard tube in one hand, and shook Ben’s with the other.

  “Roald Ushakov,” he said with a disarming smile. “Welcome to Moscow. You seem to have had quite an adventure.” His voice was soft and mellow and showed no accent at all, pronouncing “adventure” as if he had grown up in the American Midwest.

  “To say the least!” Ben said, returning the smile. “It’s almost hard for me to believe that I’ve been through all this – and that I’m here now.”

  “Come. Let’s sit over here,” Ushakov said, indicating the chairs surrounding the coffee table. “We would very much like to hear your story.”

  As Ben awaited the arrival of the men, he had debated how much he should tell the Russians. They were one of the few countries still on speaking terms with Iran, and though he didn’t pride himself on the prejudice, it had been impossible to grow up in the Sager household during the closing years of the Cold War without a distinct anti-Russian bias. The Soviets had not been kind to Yugoslavia. But these people had rescued him from an Iranian gunboat, and he had already shared most of the details of the
escape with the Colonel and Mr. Tsapkin. He had no reason to think they had any interest in harming him. He had decided to tell them what he knew.

  “Could I contact my family first?” he asked. “I’ve been missing for months, and I’m sure they must think I’m dead.”

  “Let’s have our discussion first, and you can decide when and how you wish to get in touch with your family,” Ushakov said. “We will do what we can to assist with that.”

  Ben studied the two men cautiously. “It sounds like you think that may not be a good idea. Is there some reason I shouldn’t?”

  “Perhaps. We don’t know that yet either,” Ushakov said. “Tell us about your escape, and we have some information that might help you understand what has happened to you. Fair enough?”

  ‘Fair enough?’ Ben thought. Now that’s an expression I hadn’t expected to hear!

  “You don’t sound very Russian,” he said directly, becoming less comfortable with the conversation.

  Sergey Alexeyev smiled broadly and Ushakov laughed. “My father was an exchange professor at Northwestern University for most of my early life,” he explained. “I graduated from New Trier High School in Winnetka, Illinois. Russian is almost my second language. But I understand your suspicion. I assure you, we want very much to get you home safely, but think we can help each other along the way. Shall we sit?”

  Ben took one of the embroidered chairs by the table and again decided he had nothing to lose by telling his story. “Where do you want me to begin?” he asked.

  Though obviously the subordinate, Ushakov had been designated to manage the meeting. “Wherever you like,” he said. “I’m having some tea brought in. It will be here in a moment.”