by Rebecca York
“What do you mean?”
“First, secret documents wind up in U.S. hands confirming Soviet reliance on a new chemical weapon. Next, the U.S. is given the opportunity by the Soviets to capture samples of the antidote to that weapon—a chemical called Quadrozine, along with substantiation for its effectiveness. Naturally, the U.S. is delighted to get the secret information. They analyze the compound, manufacture their own test batch, and run some field trials. Initial results confirm that Quadrozine works as claimed. So the U.S. produces millions of units of the stuff and dispenses it to all its troops, and to all NATO troops as well.”
“How does disinformation figure into this?” Julie questioned.
“Except for the fact that the Kremlin is putting a new chemical weapon into production, it’s all an elaborate hoax. In reality, Quadrozine is not an antidote, but a death trap. It’s highly unstable. Over an eighteen-month period it breaks down into something about as effective as water.”
“Then any troops using it as a defense to the new chemical weapon would be wiped out,” Julie interjected. “But I can’t believe we’d be that gullible.”
“Unfortunately, our top military strategists wanted to believe in it. So they bought it lock, stock and vial,” Gordon informed her. “Aleksei had only given me the most general of warnings about the plan before our communications link was severed. Without proof, the Pentagon went right ahead putting out competitive bids for the billion-dollar Quadrozine contract—and cut off funds for research into finding a real antidote.”
“You see, they thought it was easier and cheaper to go with something the Russians were already using, rather than do their own research,” Connie added.
“But now I have facts that will stop them,” Gordon continued, tapping the Topaz report. “Aleksei’s brought me the whole Soviet disinformation strategy on Quadrozine. It includes documentation of recent field trials in which captured Afghan troops were injected with eighteen-month-old Quadrozine and then gassed with the new chemical weapon. They died in agony.”
Julie shuddered.
“That report was what Aleksei risked his life to bring us,” the Falcon continued. “That and the formula for the real antidote.”
Julie looked at the man she loved, her eyes full of even more respect for him. “I see now why you couldn’t trust me or anyone else in Madrid after Dan was killed,” she murmured.
“Topaz had to be my highest priority.”
“I understand.”
“Once the Kremlin knows the West has the real antidote, they won’t use the weapon,” Connie added. She didn’t go on to spell out the implications for the cause of world peace. But the foursome at the table knew.
Brunch ended with the arrival of the assistant secretary of defense who had come down to talk to Aleksei and the Falcon. Julie had her own debriefing with Constance McGuire. Though thorough, it was certainly a lot less stressful than the sessions at the State Department.
In the afternoon they talked about the future.
“What do you want for you and Aleksei?” Connie asked gently.
Julie thought for a moment. “I want to make a home for him, bear his children, spend the rest of my life with him.”
“It may not be so easy,” Connie pointed out. “He’ll have a lot of adjustments to make. Russians have a different—more rigid—view of the world. Sometimes they find our open society confusing. Their choices at home are so limited that they have trouble making decisions about things we take for granted. And even if he disagrees with his country’s policies, he’s going to be homesick for Mother Russia.”
“I can help him deal with that. Besides, he’s lived in the West. It won’t be quite so strange.”
Connie gave her a direct look. “What if he won’t let you have children?”
“What do you mean?”
“He told you about his wife?”
“Yes.”
“He’s lost so much. He may be afraid to take the risk of losing you that way.”
“That wouldn’t be rational.”
“But he may not be able to help himself.”
“I hope I can change his mind,” Julie insisted.
“Helping him change will take a lot of love and a lot of understanding.”
“Two things I have a lot to give.”
* * *
IN DEFERENCE TO Aleksei’s injury, the schedule included a long rest period before dinner. Julie came into their room to find him lying on the bed, a brooding expression on his chiseled features.
“Were the discussions difficult?” she asked softly, remembering her own frank conversation with Connie.
“No.”
She sat down beside him and took his hand. “Then what is it?”
He looked away.
“Aleksei, don’t shut me out, not after what we’ve been through together.”
“What if that’s the best thing for you?”
“You arrogant bastard!”
His head whipped around to find her brown eyes fierce, the golden lights in their depths fairly sparking. His own gaze was equally telling. For a moment they were locked in silent, mental combat.
“Let me make my own decisions,” she finally whispered.
“What if I told you Bogolubov isn’t going to rest until he knows I’m dead.”
“I’d say it was the job of the U.S. government to protect you from him.”
“And if they can’t?”
“Just exactly what are you getting at?” she countered.
“The Raven has to die—and very convincingly.”
Her face went pale. “Stop fencing with me.”
The ghost of a smile played at the corners of his lips and his fingers tightened on hers. “Any man who fences with you is likely to get cut to ribbons.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Yes.” His expression grew serious again. “Julie, Gordon and the CIA are working together on a plan to make it look as though I’ve been killed. Afterwards, I’m going to have to assume a new identity.”
“And what about me?”
“Bogolubov doesn’t really want you. You could go back to your family and your new job. In a few years, after things have settled down, we could get back together.”
“Is that what you really want? Or what you think is best for me?”
He didn’t answer.
As she stared at him, one of the things Connie had said came back to her. Gordon’s assistant had speculated that Aleksei might be afraid of losing her. Was his behavior now a manifestation of that fear?
Moving closer to him, she bent to press her cheek against his. “Alyoshenka, I love you,” she whispered, turning to caress his face with her lips. “We’re not going to be separated. If you go underground, so do I.”
“I can’t ask that of you.” She caught the raw edge of pain in his voice.
“Aleksei, I told you, I make my own decisions. Where you go, so do I.”
His fingers tightened almost painfully around hers, and for a moment he shut his eyes. “There’s one more thing you have to know, then. The Falcon’s plan involves a high degree of risk.”
“Like what?”
“Placing me in a vulnerable position and then letting Yuri Hramov escape from CIA custody so he can come after me.”
“Oh, God, Aleksei. He might kill you.”
“Precisely.”
* * *
HARMONY, VERMONT, population 105, was a picture book little town of clapboard houses nestled in the shadow of Bald Mountain. The only turnoff from the highway was almost ten miles away, so there was little traffic on Main Street and almost no business activity. The U.S. Post Office was in the back of the dry-goods store, the filling station got by with a delivery of no-lead gasoline once every three months, and the grocery carried only one brand of toothpaste.
It was a perfect hiding place, Julie thought, as she paid for her canned and frozen food at the cash register.
“You take care now,” Mrs. Carter, the short, plump pro
prietor said as Julie picked up her two brown paper sacks.
“Oh, I will.”
Outside, Hank Sutton and Sam Allen, the two unemployed laborers who usually occupied the chairs by the front step looked up lazily.
Julie nodded to them as she opened the door of her battered red Mustang and set the grocery bags on the seat.
Bert Greentree, the filling-station attendant, wiped a greasy hand on his overalls and watched her progress as she turned the car around and headed for the last house down by the creek, where the road dead-ended. Among other things, he was thinking that the car needed a tune-up.
Besides being an auto mechanic, Bert was a CIA agent, as were Hank, Sam, Mrs. Carter, and everybody else in town, except the two newest residents, Julie McLean and Aleksei Rozonov.
The Mustang pulled up in the gravel drive beside the unprepossessing bungalow at the end of the street. To any casual observer she and Aleksei might be visitors who had rented the house for several months. But that was hardly the case, she thought, glancing at the special translucent curtains that covered most of the windows. They gave what appeared to be an unobstructed view of the interior. That was all part of a carefully constructed illusion.
At the top of the porch steps, she took a deep breath before opening the door, bracing herself for the feeling of disorientation she always experienced when she stepped across the threshold. The view from outside was blocked by a wall against which rested a small pine chest. In fact, it was only a small part of the stage set. Inside, the little house was divided into U-shaped compartments, each positioned toward a different window. Facing every compartment were several three-dimensional holographic and movie projectors mounted in the ceiling. As she stood in the hall, Julie pushed a button marked J1 and saw an image of herself walk down the hall and into the “kitchen.” No matter how many times she’d seen this happen, it still sent shivers down her spine. It triggered another electronically stored sequence of Aleksei getting up from a couch.
To anyone peering through the special optical filter curtains, it would look as though the two of them were living upstairs. That was precisely the idea. Crossing quickly to the basement door, she hurried downstairs, opened the combination lock on the steel barrier at the bottom, and stepped into the tunnel that connected the house to the real living quarters she and Aleksei were sharing.
When she entered the living room, he looked up, his face telling her that he’d been worried about her absence. “I’m glad you’re back. Hramov was spotted in Connecticut last night. He’s got to be arriving in town soon.”
Aleksei had been on edge all week, just as she had. Waiting in a concrete bunker for the KGB agent to come and try to kill them was almost intolerable. But the next move must be his, and all they could do was sit tight and hope that the CIA’s elaborate scenario played itself out as planned.
As she took the groceries to the compact kitchen, she marveled again that this whole crazy place even existed. Just exactly what kind of item in the federal budget had camouflaged its creation? You could stay in Harmony for a week and never guess it hid underground electronics labs that would put Disney’s Epcot Center to shame.
Aleksei got up to help her put away the supplies. As he bent to take a can of tomatoes from the bag, he shielded her body from the lens of the close-circuit camera in the corner and brushed his hand possessively against her hip. She pressed her fingers over his and then turned back to the job at hand. Both of them had picked up little tricks that brought a degree of privacy in their fishbowl environment. When Gary Conrad had explained the necessity for twenty-four-hour surveillance, they’d reluctantly agreed. Only the bedroom and bathroom in the small apartment were off limits to the hidden cameras.
A portable cellular phone rang in the living room, and Julie’s hand froze in the act of putting some tuna fish cans away. These quarters didn’t receive random calls from aluminum-siding salesmen.
Aleksei crossed the room and reached for the receive button.
Bert Greentree was on the line, speaking from his shielded office. “Station one, this is station five reporting.”
“Wolfhound here. What have you got for us?”
“He just stopped for gas and inquired about lodging in town. I told him Mrs. Smith sometimes rents a room.”
“Thanks.” He turned back to Julie.
“You don’t have to tell me who’s arrived,” she said.
* * *
HE SPENT TWO DAYS casing the town, getting to know the locals on the pretext that he was working on a travel article for the Paris edition of the Herald Tribune. A number of them were willing to talk about the young couple who had rented the small white bungalow at the end of Main Street. “They’re snooty, if you ask me,” Mrs. Carter said. “Keep to themselves,” Bert Greentree explained. “Except to visit Doc Hudson. She takes him there every Tuesday afternoon—regular like.”
Slouched in the front seat of his car, with his fisherman’s hat pulled down over his nose, Hramov watched the Tuesday ritual with interest. They must have thought they’d picked a good hiding place to be so open, he mused. And it would have been, too, if McLean hadn’t left a credit card trail a mile wide from Newport News to Vermont.
It would be as easy as shooting clay pigeons to pick off that bastard Rozonov and his whore Julie McLean right here on the street. But that wouldn’t be smart. Better to attach plastic explosives to the foundation of their house and set a timer. That way he could be on his way to Canada to meet the comrade general when the charge went off.
While the CIA had him in custody down at Newport News, he’d occupied his mind with thoughts of what he would do to Aleksei. Somehow, the idea of bombing the defector into oblivion had become an obsession.
For a moment he closed his eyes, as though to block out the unpleasant memories of what had happened during his captivity. At the navy brig there had been hours of intense interrogation, during which he was sure he hadn’t told them a thing they could use. The trouble was, when he tried to recall the sessions, he couldn’t quite bring them into sharp focus. It must have something to do with Rozonov’s banging his head against the concrete warehouse floor. But he’d certainly been thinking clearly enough to make the most of an opportunity to escape when it had presented itself.
They’d been going to transfer him to D.C. But one of the guards had gotten careless. Hramov had taken the man as a hostage and then shot him in the knee with his own gun before disappearing into the city’s dock area. From there it had been easy to get back to the room he’d rented. The CIA was hamstrung in their search for him because of the need for secrecy. Apparently the Pentagon wasn’t any more anxious to explain Topaz to the American public than the Kremlin was.
* * *
“STATION FOUR, this is station seven. Hramov disappeared into the woods a half hour ago. We believe he’s on his way to pick up the explosives he hid there.”
“Is he heading for station one?”
“We don’t have him in sight, but we will as soon as he comes out of the woods.”
“We should alert Wolfhound and Bambi to sit tight. I don’t want anyone upstairs—or even that reinforced door open—if anything’s about to happen.”
“Affirmative. But I’m having trouble calling Wolfhound. There’s interference on the line.”
“Damn! I’ll bet the remote controls for the two systems upstairs are malfunctioning like they did last week and producing stray signals on the cellular phone.”
“Maybe I should send Sam down to the street toward the creek with a fishing pole. If Hramov’s in the vicinity, that should scare him off until we can get the frequency clear again.”
“Do that and I’ll keep trying to get Wolfhound.”
* * *
AT THE END OF MAIN STREET, in the bunker, Aleksei pushed the number five button on the automatic dialer to call station five. Instead of a ring-through, all he got was a burst of static from the speaker and a blinking red light on the unit. Chyort! He looked at the equipment with disgust.
He hadn’t much liked this science fiction plan from the beginning, especially since it put Julie’s life in danger. His condition for consenting had been that Gary Conrad would keep him fully informed about what was going on. Now the damn equipment wasn’t working again.
He turned to Julie. “We had a problem like this with the remote controls on the projectors last week while you were getting groceries.”
“Didn’t Gary fix it?”
“He thought so. But you can hear for yourself that the communications system isn’t working now.” He gestured impatiently at the receiver. “I’m going up to do something about it.”
There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as he crossed to the cabinet near the five-inch-thick steel door that sealed off their hiding place. She watched as he pulled out a Colt service revolver and checked the ammunition clip.
He weighed the grip uncomfortably. The damn gun had never felt right in his hand. But Borman had balked at the very idea of anyone using a Makarov in a CIA operation. He’d been forced to go along with the change in weapons, since he was out of ammunition clips anyway.
As she watched him tuck the pistol in his waistband, her feeling of apprehension sharpened.
He turned toward a control panel by the door and flipped several switches. “I’d better turn off the system before I leave. It’s disorienting walking around up there meeting images of myself.”
“Aleksei, stay down here. It’s too dangerous if we don’t know where Hramov is.”
“All the more reason why we have to reestablish communications with our eyes and ears on the outside. You stay at the phone and try getting through to Conrad or Greentree.”
Helpless to interfere, she watched in frozen silence as he activated the inside lock and started up the stairs. She knew he’d reached the end of his patience with sitting around letting the CIA make his decisions.
Her hand automatically placed the call again, but she wasn’t listening to the static still on the line. Instead she strained to hear any hint of trouble upstairs. Minutes crawled by, but the only thing she heard was the thudding of her own heart.