by Ted Bell
Ambrose, a chap in a perpetual state of moustache, was stunned.
“Lose it?” he said, clearly terrified.
“Here. Use my knife. Don’t bloody cut yourself, either.”
A light and misty rain had begun to fall, adding to the chill and filling the forest with shadowy plays of light as Congreve removed every trace of facial hair without use of a mirror.
They had managed to get their horses inside the dense thicket of woods sight unseen. From there, they had made their way to a serviceable hiding place at the edge of the forest proper. Their concealed position was perhaps a thousand yards from the main gate.
It was staunchly defended. Guard towers manned by machine-gun-toting soldiers every fifty feet, a broad no-man’s-land occupied by roving Dobermans, and armed sentries on high alert around every searchlight tower.
It occurred to Ambrose that such redundant security didn’t make much sense out here in the uncharted realms of Siberia. Unless, of course, you were expecting unwanted company after the outbreak of recent hostilities in Florida. Or perhaps the arrival of some deity from Moscow had upped the ante?
“Are you quite done with those binoculars?” a slightly nicked but freshly shaven Congreve asked. They’d only managed to secure one pair of night-vision optics when they really needed two. The misty glare from the mammoth searchlights atop each guard tower made seeing clearly all but impossible, only adding to Halter’s apparent frustration with what he thought merely an expensive gadget.
“Just a damn minute, will you? I think I actually see something,” Halter said out of the corner of his mouth. “Movement in the vicinity of the command-and-control center entrance. A small motorcade is arriving. A fancy black Audi in the lead has just pulled up in front. Kremlin cars, I’d recognize them anywhere. Two KGB men getting out of the front. Someone climbing out of the rear seat . . . yes. Has to be bigwig whose helo has just landed from Moscow and he’s . . . he’s standing out in the cold, talking to two or three officers who’ve come out from inside the gate . . .”
“Recognize him?”
“No. Can’t make out that much detail at this distance. Short. Squat. Has two security brutes in close attendance. They’re all chatting like mad about something. Odd. A high-level meeting in the middle of the night? Here, have a look.”
Halter handed Congreve the high-powered NVGs.
Congreve first turned them over in his hands, scrutinizing the optics.
“Ever used these before?” he asked Stefan.
“Not really. No. Why?”
“Your settings are all wrong, Professor. You need enhanced filtration in these wretched conditions. There we go. That should do,” Congreve said, raising the glasses to his eyes and peering through them. He looked hard for a few moments before exclaiming, “What? No, no, that cannot be. I think I’m going stark raving mad, Stef!”
“What is it? Let me see . . .”
Congreve held on to the device.
“Hold on a tick . . . yes . . . unless my poor eyes deceive me . . . here . . . have a look and tell me what you see. Maybe I am crazy after all.”
“All right, what am I looking at?” Halter took the bloody things to have another look, swinging them back and forth.
“Zoom in, Stef. Get a very close look at the short chap in the middle of the group. Turn the big knob underneath . . .”
“What? Oh, yes. Good God. I don’t believe it. That’s impossible . . . astounding likeness, really . . . however, I do think . . . but, still, I mean, really.”
“It’s Stalin, isn’t it, Stef?”
“Well, it’s obviously not Stalin, now, is it? Uncle Joe left us to fend for ourselves in 1953, remember?”
“So who the bloody hell is it then?”
“I’ve seen hundreds of hours of film of Joseph Stalin. Yet, for all that, I would swear on my mother’s grave that the fellow I’m looking at was him,” Halter said, handing the NVGs back to his comrade.
Congreve peered through them and said, “The ghost of Joe Stalin is now entering the building. Time to make our move, agreed?”
“If we’ve got but one life to live,” Halter said, “let us give it now. We’ve really no alternative at this point, old fellow. Let’s go cause trouble!”
THE TWO SPIES RETRACED THEIR steps through the heavy wood, the rocky ground now sodden with rain. They saw their tied steeds where they’d left them, stamping their hooves and snorting steam in the frigid air of the small clearing. They mounted up and made their way out of the woods to the stony, now muddy road they’d found earlier. The one that eventually wound its way around the perimeter of the forest and back to the main gate of the KGB compound.
Congreve could feel a thousand eyes on him as they approached the brilliantly illuminated guardhouse next to the heavily gated entry. Two men with machine guns instantly emerged from it and called for them to halt and dismount. Not a request, an order. Halter nodded agreeably and nimbly dropped to the ground. He then walked smiling toward the waiting muzzles of the dozen or so guns now pointed in his direction. It had been decided on the way in to let Stef do the talking. Ambrose would mutter a few appropriate words when challenged and show his ID when asked.
Halter was accustomed to real power inside the subtle but deadly political minefield that was the Kremlin and most of Mother Russia. His name was known and feared inside the Kremlin walls, and his imposing presence could knock down any door that was closed against him.
One guard stepped forward while the other took the reins of Halter’s black steed.
“Identification, please, General,” the man said, holding his hand out.
Halter presented his KGB and state papers. The man perused them with great care, nodding his head. Congreve felt a wave of relief. Stef must have pulled it off. The two guards actually seemed in awe of his friend who, had, after all, legitimate credentials. But then they shifted their focus to him. At least, the two brutes didn’t seem in the mood to shoot him where he stood as they approached. Even his horse was visibly nervous.
“Papers, Captain,” the larger of the two demanded in harsh language.
Congreve muttered back in a strong Russian dialect intended to convey the tone of a seasoned KGB officer with a strong sense of power, command, and entitlement.
“Of course, Sergeant.”
The man had a sturdy flashlight and studied his papers in the brilliant white beam. These gentlemen, he noticed, had helmets with a bit of flash. They appeared to be made of steel, polished to a mirrorlike finish. And their sharply tailored black uniforms reminded Congreve of nothing so much as Hitler’s infamous SS “Death’s Head” outfits.
“What is this here? No stamp? Why is it blank, the space, Captain?” the fellow said, staring at him suspiciously. Congreve’s mind went blank for a terrifying moment while it searched in vain for a satisfactory response.
“Well?” the big man said, with deliberate menace in his voice. He unsnapped his leather holster and grasped the grip of his pistol.
Congreve froze.
CHAPTER 63
What seems to be the trouble here?”
It was Halter, thank God. Somehow, he was suddenly at Congreve’s side. Congreve snapped out of it, affected irritation, and told Stef the problem.
“Missing a stamp or two, it appears, General Halter,” Congreve said. “Sorry, sir. I don’t know what happened. Some bureau idiot forgot to—”
Stef turned to the guard. “My man missing a stamp, is he?” he said, glowering at the younger of the two guards.
“Well, General, it does appear that his interdepartmental transit sticker is missing and also his—”
“I am his transit sticker, you bloody idiot! Do you have any idea whom you’re speaking to?”
Halter held his opened KGB ID folder an inch from the man’s frozen nose.
“Well?” Stef asked. “Can you read?”
“First Chief Directorate . . . Foreign Intelligence Service, sir. You have my deepest apologies. I’m sorry, sir. We w
ere not informed of your impending arrival. And this man is your . . . your—”
“Captain Georgy Molotov is my aide-de-camp! And, as you can plainly see, he may be missing a sticker, but he is also wearing the fucking Gold Star of a Hero of the Russian Federation on his chest, for Christ’s sake! Now, you will please escort us through the HQ entrance immediately. I want no further trouble out of you men. The captain and I are arriving late because our flight from St. Petersburg was diverted due to engine troubles. We had to ride for hours on bloody horseback just to get here.”
A few minutes later they were standing just inside the imposing building. A decorated officer shook Stef’s hand.
“I’m very sorry about the inconvenience, General. Please follow me. The meeting has already started, I’m afraid, but just a short time ago. All seats are taken save a few at the rear. You and the captain will have to be seated at the back of the room. Unless you want me to disturb them and inform them of your late arrival? Perhaps you’d rather be seated at the very front?”
“No, no. Won’t be necessary, Sergeant. Just show us inside the room. We’ll take it from there.”
“Of course, General Halter. Again, my apologies. And to you as well, Captain Molotov. If you gentlemen will just follow me? The captain of the guards will then escort you into the meeting room.”
And so he did.
Halter’s one great fear now was that he himself might be recognized. Recognition meant the end of his life, whether he was executed immediately or not. There was little chance he could talk his way out of this one; he had known that all along. Putin would have his head and that would be the end of it.
So bet it, he said to himself, and forged ahead.
He wore his cap low over his eyes entering the hall, and that, combined with the collar of his furry overcoat up around his ears seemed, at least so far, to be working. Should they be discovered, he also knew Ambrose Congreve would be tortured endlessly, months in Lubyanka Prison perhaps, perhaps more.
And then Ambrose Congreve would be shot for a spy—
Halter shook such thoughts of impending doom out of his mind as they settled into the two remaining seats.
STEFAN WONDERED IF THIS SPUR-OF-THE-MOMENT mission to Siberia had not been ill-advised. But he decided he’d been in much tighter situations and always survived. He was doing his duty. What he was doing could change the course of history. He had it in his power to save the Motherland. It was that simple. And he decided to let whatever was coming his way, come. Alas, if the worst should happen . . .
He and Congreve could see a raised podium. Six ramrod-straight KGB officers in jet black uniforms, glittering with gleaming decorations and combat ribbons, sat facing the audience below.
In the center of all this militaristic magnificence was an apparition. The living ghost of Joseph Stalin was in the center seat.
His face was bright red and contorted in anger. He was screaming at a big John Wayne of a man standing at attention. His gnarled hands were clasped firmly behind his pressed-khaki-shirted back as he stood a few feet below and facing the raised platform. An American, obviously, Halter thought.
At that moment, he saw Stalin glance over at him. He brushed it off. He’d never met the man and the chance of recognition was minimal.
The two imposters sat and listened as if fate had put them in this room. And, indeed, it had. Their fate would be determined this night.
“And what do you have to say for yourself, Colonel?” Stalin said to the defiant man looking up from below. The American was equally belligerant.
“You pay for my military advice and then you tell me what to do, for crissakes. This is not what I came here to do.”
“I tell everyone what to do, you fucking idiot! Now, it seems that even our famous American mercenary has qualms about civilian casualties. This, while leading a tank battalion into the outskirts of Prague. I ask you once more, Colonel Beauregard. Are you refusing to lead your men across the Czech border? Your answer will decide your fate, I warn you now.”
The man began to speak, reconsidered, and paused a moment to reflect on his options.
“American mercenary?” Congreve whispered, not turning his head toward Halter.
Halter placed his lips near Ambrose’s right ear. He whispered:
“Beauregard. The famously disgraced founder of Vulcan. Our suspicions and Kremlin rumors are true. Meant to divert attention away from Putin’s own actions. Shh. Listen.”
And the American continued.
“Uncle Joe, listen here, I’m giving you a stern warning, not refusing a goddamn thing. I am questioning the military wisdom of marching into a NATO capital at a time when tensions are higher than at the height of the Cuban missile crisis. I don’t see how you can avoid a preemptive nuclear strike on Moscow from the United States or Britain or any nuclear power.
“The U.S. is sworn to protect its NATO allies,” Beauregard continued, “and the Pentagon will choose to fight, I promise you people. I know the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Moore. He is a hawk of the first order, severely disappointed in the White House. And he won’t wait for a weak president’s approval before launching his big missiles, trust me. You want World War Three? You got it, Uncle Joe. Your call.”
Uncle Joe smiled, a cat with a flurry of canary feathers stuck to his lips.
“Thank you for that lesson in political science. Do you really believe that we have not considered the ramifications of every single move we are preparing to make? Are you insane? Any threat to attack us will result in our country going to a war footing. And the destruction of more American cities like Miami, only exponentially worse. Our network of KGB saboteurs in the U.S. will put a quick end to any military threats resulting from the invasion of Estonia, Poland, and the Czech Republic. Now I ask you. Do you wish to follow my orders? Or resign your commission and face the consequences?”
“Give me a date and time, Uncle Joe. We will march into Prague and we will take no prisoners.”
“Good! Finally, he comes to his senses!”
“May I be excused?” the Colonel said. “It’s late. I have a lot of work to do if we’re to be ready to start moving troops into theater in one week, sir.”
“Yes, of course. Go. See to your men. Now . . . what’s next?” Uncle Joe said, his lidded eyes roving around the audience. “Oh, yes. I’d like to call upon the two gentlemen in the rear of the room . . . yes, yes, the two who just arrived. Please stand and be recognized.”
Congreve felt Halter go rigid, his hand suddenly clenching Congreve’s knee painfully. Heart attack, Congreve thought. “I’ve been recognized,” Stef whispered fiercely. “It’s over.”
“Gentlemen,” Uncle Joe repeated, “I’ve asked you to stand.”
“No, Stef, wait—”
“When I get up,” he croaked under his breath, “leave the room. Now. You have to get out or we both die . . . go!”
“No! I won’t leave you! You cannot—”
Halter stood up tall, and all eyes were riveted on the big man.
“I am General Stefanovich Halter. Some of you here may know me. Sorry, we were unavoidably delayed. My adjutant, Captain Molotov, and I are here at the express order of President Putin. The president asked me to convey his compliments and ask that you—that you—sorry, I feel a bit—”
A dry and strangled cry rose up from Stefan’s throat.
Halter suddenly clutched at his chest with both hands and uttered a loud scream of pain. His faced turned tomato red and his eyes bulged as he stumbled backward to the floor, knocking over his chair. Congreve, who’d first thought his friend had suffered a heart attack, now thought he might have been shot. Calling out for a doctor in Russian, he knelt down beside his fallen comrade. He leaned down and spoke rapidly into his ear as pandemonium broke out in the crowded room. No one knew quite what to do.
“Stef! What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Heart attack,” Stef croaked with a grim smile. “Go! Get the hell out while you still can
, Georgy. Run. Don’t look back. Warn everyone you can. Tell them what you saw and heard here tonight. Imminent invasion. Keep moving, say you’re calling General Halter’s doctors in Moscow—now, don’t argue. Get to your horse while you still can. Go! Go!”
AN HOUR LATER, AMBROSE CONGREVE was galloping across the rocky tundra through the frigid night air, his great bearskin coat flapping wildly behind him. He was using the stars to navigate, headed for the little train station at Tvas. Once there, he would wait in the shadows, watching the tracks from the shadows. If no one came to kill him, he would try to catch the next train headed west for St. Petersburg. If he could evade capture by watchful KGB thugs sure to be waiting for him at the rail stations, he hoped to find his way onto a Swissair flight to Zurich. And from there a train or two northward to Calais; finally, a ferry across the English Channel and on to London.
That was his plan, at any rate.
An hour passed, then two. He’d almost grown comfortable with the snorting and sweat-soaked beast beneath him. The secret, he learned, was to focus only on holding on, boots taut in the stirrups, one hand on the pommel, the reins in the other.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that as desperately bad as things were for him, they were no doubt far, far worse for his friend Halter. Stef was either lying dead of a heart attack or, if he’d survived that, being interrogated by brutal KGB agents.
Ambrose whispered a silent prayer, knowing full well he owed his life to his friend for aiding and abetting his escape, even in that dire moment when Halter most surely knew himself to be lost.
Congreve had to survive at least long enough to honor what was perhaps Stef’s last wish. Go back. Tell everyone what happened here. He’d already decided that as soon as he got safely home to London he’d go directly to Number Ten Downing. There he would tell the prime minister about everything he’d both seen and heard at the secret KGB military facility at Tvas. And the little man who would be Stalin.
As he rode on, Congreve was unable to shake off the heavy sense of grief over his old friend Halter. He’d long known there was heart trouble. But Stefan Halter was a force of nature. Perhaps he’d beat the heart attack into submission. If he wasn’t dead, he’d prove a hard man to kill, that much was certain.