by Jon Land
Before her rose the pale-green jasper statue of Buddha. Beneath a nine-tier canopy, he was huge and breathtaking, garbed in his summer shoulder cloak and headpiece. The crowd in the chamber was small—just a few tourists circling about and a Buddhist monk kneeling on a cushion before the statue. Natalya paced leisurely around, finally drawing near the monk who turned his head toward her.
“Come closer.”
The words had been spoken in Russian! Katlov!
“Kneel on one of the cushions,” he continued. “Act as if you’re praying,” he added when she was kneeling. “No, better yet, pray for real. The world could use it.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Natalya said softly, glancing over at Katlov’s face, which was framed by his orange robes. She saw he wore a patch over his left eye.
“Don’t look at me,” he ordered. “Keep your eyes on the Buddha. Lean over. Pray. Do it!”
Again Natalya obeyed, but her impatience got the better of her. She whispered, “Enough precautions.”
“No! With Raskowski, there can never be enough.” Katlov silenced himself as an American woman with twin daughters passed just behind them. “The general is everywhere in this city. Everything I’ve put you through today reflects that. Believe me, it was for both our sakes.”
“You have been with him from the beginning?”
“Yes, under the auspices of the Scientific Bureau working on the Alpha project. I had a different name back then, a different identity. He insisted I become who I am now when I followed him in exile.”
“Others followed him as well.”
“Yes, several. But many stayed behind to await the call. Besides those specifically connected with the scientific aspects of Alpha, no one else was allowed to leave. They can do more damage from within—once the time comes.”
“Raskowski gave the Americans three weeks to unilaterally disarm. Is that his timetable?”
“I don’t know. Only he does.”
“Were you always this frightened of him?”
“In awe, originally. He gave me a purpose in my work on the Alpha death ray, made me feel what I was accomplishing was crucial to the fulfillment of Soviet destiny.” Katlov paused. “It was spending so many hours close to him in the weeks prior to the initiation of the plan that made me see the truth.”
“Hope Valley made you see?”
“Was that the name of the American town we destroyed? My God, I’d forgotten it. I’m becoming as insensitive as the general.” Katlov gazed at her. “I joined him in his crusade because I honestly believed we were doing something noble. But lately I have come to see the general was only interested in doing what was best for himself. Our homeland means nothing to him, comrade. He will kill anyone who stands in the way of his plan. He will send his tanks rolling through Moscow if that’s what it takes to seize power.”
“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know. Our meetings are always arranged by him. If I need to reach him there are drops, signals, but he never appears personally unless the advances come from him. This madness can still be stopped, though, by destroying his weapon.” Katlov paused. “You are familiar with the massive American early detection satellite Ulysses, launched six months ago?”
“Of course. But what—No, it can’t be!”
Natalya stopped. Katlov didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
Raskowski’s death beam had been deployed aboard an American satellite!
“It was all accomplished through the Farmer Boy,” Katlov explained. “I don’t know the specifics, only the results. Once Raskowski was exiled it was the only means of getting his death ray into space. The Farmer Boy took care of all the scientific arrangements; complicated to be sure, but obviously worth it.”
“Then if the General Secretary can convince the President to deactivate Ulysses, it will be finished. He is in a position to deal from strength now. He’ll do it, I’m sure. This will all be over.”
“Not quite, because Raskowski will still be out there and only I can lead you to him.”
“I thought you said—”
“I have learned much from the general during the course of Alpha, comrade, including what to hold back and for how long. I have furnished you with the general’s death ray, but unless he, too, is dealt with, the weapon will surface again.” Katlov stopped as a man entered and began snapping pictures of the Buddha.
“So what do you want from me?” Natalya asked Katlov.
“Raskowski arranged resettlement of our families. It was a benevolent gesture, but as with everything the general does there was an ulterior motive. By resettling our families, he controls them and, accordingly, us. If we cross him, we will be punished with far more than the loss of our own lives. That was never stated, but the implications are there.” He paused to steady his voice. “Get my family to safety, comrade. Then and only then will I… .”
Katlov was still talking when Natalya recalled that no picture taking was permitted in this chamber. She turned toward the man behind them. He was drawing his gun in that instant. Natalya dove at Katlov and shoved him to the side, but it was too late. The man had already begun firing. She heard Katlov gasp as the bullets hit him.
“Traitor!” the killer shouted in Russian over the terrified screams of the other tourists who scrambled frantically for cover.
Natalya wasn’t sure whether the gunman was addressing her or Katlov’s corpse. She had whipped her pistol from her handbag and fired it just as the gunman turned his weapon on her. Natalya’s barked first; one bullet to the head, a second to the chest. The killer reeled briefly, then crumbled.
Natalya gazed fiercely around her. Procedure dictated a backup be present. Perhaps outside the chamber, though. She charged out before the cowering, still-screaming tourists recovered their senses enough to note her face. She had to move and keep moving. Somewhere more of Raskowski’s assassins would be waiting for her. She had to outthink as well as outrun them.
She slowed her pace only when she had reached the bottom of the stairs and replaced her shoes. Temple security personnel would be charging past her any second, alerted by gunshots and the witnesses who had escaped ahead of her. She had to be far off the grounds before news spread. She had what she needed.
Raskowski’s beam weapon had been deployed on board an American satellite!
But the general could be stopped now. She would contact the General Secretary, and he would contact the Americans. Ulysses would be deactivated. Out of near catastrophe, a new dialogue would be initiated.
Natalya left the grounds through a gate behind the Temple of the Emerald Buddha. Back in the crowded streets, she felt safer. Her hotel was a brief walk from the grounds and walking was her safest means of travel now. She gave any of the gunman’s possible backups plenty of opportunities to move on her but none were taken. Still, she did not let herself think it could be finished this simply.
She slowed as she approached her hotel. Something was wrong, something she couldn’t identify at first. She continued to survey the scene as her pace slowed to a crawl.
The bellhops. Suddenly there were too many of them and few seemed interested in toting the bags of arriving or departing guests. Of course. Raskowski’s men hadn’t followed her from the Royal Palace because if she survived they knew where she would go.
Natalya couldn’t risk anything that would draw the eyes of the bellhops to her. She doubted any of these men knew her from anything but pictures. A subtle disguise would be effective.
She stooped her shoulders and bent slightly at the knees. The result was to make her appear older and shorter. If she kept her head down and walked without hesitation, the fake bellmen would have no reason to take notice.
She was never sure if they even looked at her because she kept her eyes down as she passed in front of the hotel and continued on. Other problems faced her. Her hotel possessed long-distance phone service with which she had intended to get word of her discovery to the General Secretary. She would need an alte
rnative. The Post and Telegraph Department, as its name indicated, possessed mail and telegraph facilities in addition to phones. A wire sent in code to the proper drop point would get the news to Chernopolov in a matter of hours.
Up ahead, a pair of buses were approaching a stop. On impulse, Natalya dashed toward them. If she had been spotted upon passing the hotel, this would certainly tell her. She rushed forward as the buses squealed to a halt one behind the other and squeezed herself on. Looking behind her out the windows, she saw no one sprinting to give chase. The stampede of others pushing themselves on forced her into the center of the bus, pressed against bodies on all sides. Two stops later she climbed out and began walking the few remaining blocks to the Post and Telegraph Department. She found herself breathing easier.
The building was modern in design, almost western, and Natalya walked calmly inside. The telegraph windows were off to the right. There were counters complete with pads on which messages could be drafted. Natalya had the code memorized. She worked out the proper sequence for her message in her head and got the wording right on the first draft, double and triple-checking it just to be sure. She added the drop address from which it would reach the General Secretary directly and presented it with payment at one of the windows.
In her haste to leave, she almost forgot to retrieve the change. Pocketing it, she moved away. Best to make use of a different door in leaving, she thought, and made straight for an exit in the back of the building. She threw open the door and started out, muttering an apology to a man she had nearly collided with.
General Vladimir Raskowski smiled at her. He was holding a pistol aimed at her face.
“I trust your message to the General Secretary is on its way now,” he said. Then he stepped back so Natalya could see the armed men on either side of him before she had a chance to act rashly.
It was his tone that confused her more than anything. “You let me send it,” she realized. “You wanted me to send it… .”
“Guilty as charged,” Raskowski said. His perfectly transplanted hair whipped in the wind as he turned to indicate a man standing directly behind him.
She recognized the man well enough to know what she was seeing was impossible. But within the impossible lay the heart of the madness.
The one-eyed Katlov smiled at her, no longer dressed in his monk’s attire and very much alive.
“You’re dead!” Natalya said quite surely. “I saw you shot!”
And General Raskowski began to laugh.
Part Three
Rounding Up the Usual Suspects
Pamosa Springs; Friday, five P.M.
Chapter 20
BY FIVE P.M. FRIDAY the streets of Pamosa Springs were quiet. The town had been divided into sectors, and residents were allowed to venture out for supplies only in escorted groups. A number of guards patrolled the small commercial district on foot, while others made slow, careful loops in jeeps.
The work on the hillside, meanwhile, continued at a nonstop, frenetic pace. Whatever the invaders were mining was being transferred into the hidden gulley where even more labor was concentrated. At night huge sparks would dance into the air, evidence of massive welding equipment. Cables had been run from various power stations into the work area to provide the vast amounts of electricity needed. Something was being constructed in the gulley, the residents knew, and whatever it was, the fruits of the invaders’ mining labor must have had a great deal to do with it.
Mayor McCluskey and Sheriff Heep, en route to Doc Hatcher’s office, watched the sparks climbing toward the sky. A team of guards was escorting them there under orders from Colonel Quintell, leader of the occupying forces. Quintell met them in the waiting room. He looked harried and tired, eyes drawn, his beret off for the first time in the four days of occupation.
“We have problems,” were his first words.
“I’ll say,” returned Dog-ear.
“Why do you choose to make this so hard on yourselves?”
“It’s a tendency we have when some murdering bastards take over our town and steal what’s ours,” came Sheriff Junk’s reply.
“If we put aside our differences, we can get through this, all of us. I would be willing to go as far as to forget the events of the past two nights.”
“What events?” Dog-ear questioned.
“Please, gentlemen, do not insult my intelligence.”
“What events?” from Heep this time.
Colonel Quintell nodded to himself. “Follow me.”
He opened the door to Doc Hatcher’s examination room, and a pair of soldiers escorted Dog-ear and Sheriff Junk inside after him. There, laid out on three tables, were three sheet-covered corpses.
“Three of my men,” the colonel started with repressed rage. He drew back the first sheet. “This one was knifed in the back.” To the second corpse now. “This one had his throat cut.” And the third. “This one’s neck was snapped. It takes a tremendous amount of strength to break a man’s neck in this manner, strength and training. Do you have any idea who in your town has the training to do such things?”
“Yeah,” replied Dog-ear. “Hal Taggart, but I think we can safely rule him out.”
Quintell ignored the remark. “A victim was claimed Tuesday, a second on Wednesday, the third last night. If you won’t help me find the murderer, at least stop him on your own. I beg you. It would be for your own good.”
“Own good?” Sheriff Junk repeated. “What the fuck? You rode into town, and we came out into the street. A guy with a rifle that couldn’t shoot straight comes along after some rats, and you gun him down without a single word of warning. I’d call you the murderers.”
Quintell surprised them by nodding. “Denials on my part would be pointless at this stage.” The pain in his face seemed honest. “I loathe this sort of work. I loathe losing men even more, though, which is why you must understand that I cannot allow it to go on.”
“You want a list of suspects from us?” asked Dog-ear. “Just go to the town hall and read the rolls.”
“I want a list of men with recent military service or other training in weapons. This killer is an expert. After losing one man on each of our first two nights here, I doubled the patrols but he still managed to kill another. Men like that cannot go unnoticed in a town as small as yours.”
“Apparently they can,” Dog-ear told him.
“Maybe he’s just getting settled and hasn’t met many folks yet,” said Heep.
“This is nothing to joke about,” snapped the colonel. “Believe me when I say it is best for you and your town to cooperate with me. I’m simply an underling, just as frustrated and just as anxious as you are. If I do not produce the results my superiors desire, I will be replaced.” Quintell hesitated. “There is talk of a man being sent for, a man whose approach you will find considerably less cordial than mine. An enforcer, not a soldier.”
“You know this man?”
“I know his type and I hate it as much as I hate this type of work. Cooperate with me, help me find the murderer of my men. My superiors are not patient. There is no telling what steps they are liable to take. Please, I beg you, for both our sakes.”
“Don’t look to us to get your ass out of the fire,” Dog-ear said harshly.
“Your own asses will be charred far blacker than mine if the worst comes to pass.”
“Look, friend,” said the sheriff, “we couldn’t help you even if we wanted to. The killer you’re describing don’t exist in Pamosa Springs.”
Colonel Quintell stood over the third murdered soldier. His eyes were open, and a hideous grimace froze the instant of incredible agony when his neck was snapped.
“Tell that to my men,” the colonel said grimly.
A soldier appeared in the doorway and snapped to attention. “Sir, Post One reports that a man has arrived at the roadblock with clearance papers.”
“Clearance papers?” The dread in Quintell’s voice was obvious.
“Yes, sir.”
“Sen
d him through,” the colonel ordered softly. He steadied himself against the table where the soldier lay.
“What’s it mean?” wondered Dog-ear McCluskey.
“That it just became too late for all of us.”
The President had listened to the General Secretary’s words in shocked silence. The fact that no interpreter had been employed, thanks to the Soviet leader’s fluency in English, made the tale even more startling and ominous.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me, Mr. Chernopolov, how your death-ray found its way onto our satellite.”
“It’s not our weapon. It belongs to General Raskowski, as I explained. Please, this has not been easy for me to admit.”
“Any easier for me to listen to, you think?”
“Mr. President, Raskowski was no longer one of our own. He was an outcast. The Kremlin underestimated his resources and contacts … even within your own military community.”
“I suppose you will want to blame all your aggressions on Raskowski.”
“He has made every effort to create hostility between us because he knew that open communication might prove the best weapon against him.”
“Can ‘open communication’ prevent another Hope Valley?”
“It can if we refrain from thinking in the manner he expects us to. If we are to survive this crisis, if true peace is ever to be achieved, we must rise above the inclination to accept the sentiments of those with a grasp of only part of the picture. The stakes demand it.”
“I can’t disagree with you there.”
“What will you do, Mr. President?”
“You’ll be among the first to know.”
General Secretary Chernopolov held the phone to his ear for a time after the connection had broken off. His eyes fell again on the communiqué received just hours before from Bangkok.
Natalya Tomachenko had saved her country, perhaps even the world. In doing so, however, she had placed herself in a position of power no Soviet citizen could be allowed to hold. A delicate balance was at stake which the slightest weight could throw off. Her knowledge, if used properly, could be as devastating a weapon against the Soviet Union as Raskowski’s plan itself. She had been used for so long against her wishes, and now she had the means to swing that balance in her favor.