by Lee Jackson
Bob escorted Atcho to various points of interest before they located their seats. Then, since they had arrived early, they walked about and mingled with old friends, classmates, and members of Bob’s class. “There’s someone you’d probably like to see,” Bob said, leading the way. Atcho followed absently, caught up in his surroundings. People called to him and he greeted them cordially.
Soon, they rounded a corner, and stopped at one of the tables. Bob stood talking to a tall Air Force colonel. The officer looked vaguely familiar, but so did most people by this time, so Atcho paid little attention. “Atcho, it’s good to see you!” Atcho turned.
The colonel stood before him, hand extended. “You might not remember me,” he said. “My name is Paul Clary. You knew me as Lieutenant Clary.”
Momentarily bewildered, Atcho studied the man’s face. “Colonel Clary,” he said at last, taking the proffered hand. “I didn’t know you were an Academy graduate.”
Clary laughed easily. “I’m not,” he replied. “I’m on the faculty here, so I’m invited to some of these affairs.”
“He’s being modest,” Bob cut in. “He teaches a class on National Security Affairs, and they keep him on tap in Washington to advise on arms control.”
Trying to remember why he had so mistrusted Clary in Havana, Atcho regarded him with increased respect. I must have been paranoid, he thought.
Clary was still stoop-shouldered, his face lined with middle age, but the intelligence that Juan had observed was there in his amiable eyes. “I owe you an apology for the way I treated you in Havana.”
“Forget it,” Clary cut in. “That was a long time ago, and we were both in difficult situations. As you said then, under similar circumstances, I might have done the same thing.”
The two men shook hands again. “How do you know my son-in-law?” Atcho asked.
Colonel Clary clapped an arm around Bob’s shoulder. “He was one of my star students last year. Isabel told Bob that you tried calling her from Havana last April. At the time, we were studying the effectiveness of freedom-fighter movements in third world countries, and Bob mentioned you in class. We saw news reports about your release, and I figured you were the guy who kept me overnight in Cuba. When I heard that you were coming here, I asked Bob to get us together.”
He turned to Isabel. “Your father was pretty determined to find you,” he chuckled. “To get you back, I think he would have taken on Castro, the United States, and the Soviet Union.” He looked somberly at Atcho. “Well,” he said, “I’m glad you two are finally together.”
Isabel stepped closer to her father, and slipped an arm around his waist. Atcho felt a lump in his throat.
Just then, a voice sounded over the loudspeaker. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am the Commandant of Cadets, and will be your Master of Ceremonies. Please move to your seats, and remain standing for the Invocation.”
“I’m very pleased to see you again under better circumstances,” Colonel Clary said.
“My pleasure,” Atcho said, grasping his extended hand. I wonder what you’d think if you knew the rest of the story, he thought grimly. He returned to his table with Bob and Isabel.
During the banquet, Mike Rogers sat next to Atcho, while Isabel sat on his opposite side, next to Bob. Other dinner companions were men Atcho had known, and their wives. The wine was excellent, the food satisfying, and the music relaxing.
During announcements, the Commandant introduced Atcho. “We’ve all read stories in the news over the last couple of days,” he said, “and we don’t want to embarrass him or upstage our speaker, so we’ll just wish, Eduardo – now better known as Atcho – a warm welcome.”
The guests began clapping, and Atcho stood to acknowledge. The people at his table stood, and the same occurred at the next table, and then the surrounding tables. Soon, everyone in Washington Hall gave him a thunderous standing ovation. Atcho felt humbled. He only hoped that his smile looked like that of a man thrilled at being released from abysmal conditions after two decades. He waved, turned to acknowledge in all directions, and sat down. Isabel squeezed his arm.
“We’re all so proud of you,” Mike Rogers said. The other guests at the table smiled warmly at him, and he did his best to return a suitable expression. If only they knew.
The speaker was the Commanding General of the 82nd Airborne Division, a contemporary of Atcho’s, though not a classmate. He also made warm comments about Atcho and then launched into a speech about future force structure.
When he had finished, music played again, and Atcho danced with Isabel and the wives of his classmates. They lingered late into the night, enjoying the atmosphere of elegance and charm permeating the grand dining hall.
All through the evening, classmates and other well-wishers sought out Atcho. “If you are looking for work, I have no doubt we can use you,” one told him. “We’re a defense contractor, one of the largest.”
Another said, “Hey, have you decided where you’re going to settle yet? We could sure benefit from your knowledge of Latin America!”
Yet a third said, “Atcho, I own one of the largest real estate management companies in Washington, DC. If you don’t mind living in that chaotic mess, we could make it both challenging and rewarding.”
Atcho lost count of the offers, but accepted the business cards and offered genuine gratitude to the people for their consideration.
Long after midnight, he entered the lobby of Thayer Hotel. With a sense of well-being, he took the elevator, and then followed the hall to his room. After a brisk shower, he went to bed and turned out the light. With memories of two satisfying days drifting through his mind, he fell asleep.
An hour later, the harsh ringing of the phone awakened him abruptly. Half asleep, he reached for the receiver and cradled it against his ear. “Hello.”
“Atcho.” The voice was raspy and mocking.
“Govorov!” Atcho jerked awake, his nerves tensed like steel fibers. “What do you want?”
“Atcho! I’m just calling to make sure you’re comfortable. Are you settling in all right?”
Atcho swung his legs to the floor, glaring viciously through darkness at the telephone. “Didn’t you think your note was enough?”
Govorov chuckled. “Then it arrived! Good! You know, with the mail system the way it is, I was afraid it might not reach you.”
“What do you want, Govorov? Have you decided what I’m supposed to do?”
“No, no, no. This is much too soon.” Govorov assumed his jocular tone. “First I want to say how pleased I am that you are having such a good time. Truly I am, Atcho. I understand that the run by the train station is one of the more pleasant routes.”
In stunned silence, and recalling sourly his celebration of being alone, Atcho listened. Govorov continued. “I understand that various employment opportunities have come your way. I want to discuss them with you before too much time passes. Atcho, are you there?”
“I’m here.” His mind spun.
“I think you should take the real estate opportunity in Washington. The company owned by your classmate has an excellent reputation.”
In an instant, Atcho decided that he would object to everything Govorov said, and acquiesce only when there was no other choice. “I don’t know anything about real estate.”
“You’ve been out of the mainstream for quite some time,” the general said in his whispery voice. “What do you know about anything?”
“I don’t want to live in Washington.”
“As I was saying,” Govorov interrupted. “The company is a good one. The contacts are superb. You’d be at the center of influence and power, meeting people you’ll need to know.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have me with one of the defense contractors?”
“No,” the general said impatiently. “That’s too technical, and too obvious. We have most of the defense establishment covered anyway. We want you in a position that has flexibility, and where you can rise. For the time being, I thi
nk the real estate job suits our requirements ideally. We can move you later if we need to.”
“You don’t leave me much room, do you?”
“Atcho, what are you saying? You’re out of prison, in a free country, preparing to enter a career that, I promise, will be financially rewarding. With Isabel leaving for Europe … ”
“Is that your doing?” Atcho growled.
“We knew about it, of course,” Govorov said, without answering the question. “But we didn’t want to spoil your reception. Look, I don’t have time for chit-chat. You’ll return home with Isabel and Bob, and stay there until they leave in January. Meanwhile, you are to accept your classmate’s offer. For the sake of appearances, wait a few weeks, and bargain with him over salary. But be ready to move to Washington after Isabel leaves. I’ll talk to you when you’re settled.” Govorov paused. “One more thing.” His tone became menacing. “You’ve already made good contacts. Be careful how you develop them. I’ll be keenly interested in your activities.”
Atcho heard a click and a dial tone.
25
Atcho stared into the blackness surrounding him. Strangely, he felt no emotion. Walking to the window, he stared into the night. Stars were bright in a cloudless sky and a new moon made its appearance low on the horizon. Occasionally, headlights followed the river road and disappeared around a bend. West Point, tucked in the hills Atcho knew so well, seemed peacefully asleep. But somewhere beyond his window, a watcher knew his every move. That had been inevitable. There was no other way to keep him trapped in this hellish web.
He stared into the street below, mentally studying the face of each person he had spoken with during the past two days. Several stood out in his mind, including Mike Rogers and Paul Clary, and the man who offered the real estate job. But, how could they have known about his jogging trip past the train station? How could Mike Rogers or Paul Clary know about the job offer?
He walked slowly to the bed and sat down. He was alone. His first urge was to expose all that had been done to him these past twenty years. He could tell authorities of Govorov’s tentacles, reaching to the highest places in American government. Mike Rogers would be a good place to start. He would expose his own KGB recruitment, and the threat to Isabel. Surely the U.S. government could stop Govorov’s activities.
But he knew better. He had no proof, and given his long periods of confinement, his own mental stability would fall into question. At the extreme, he could be deported, or worse yet, Govorov could carry out his threat to kill Isabel and Bob’s family. Until he devised a viable plan, identified a source of allies, or found a way to guarantee Isabel’s safety, he would have to follow Govorov’s instructions.
In darkness, Atcho raised his fist and stared at the moon. I’ll bide my time, Govorov, he promised. But I’ll push back every step of the way, and somehow, some day, I’ll put you away.
PART XI
26
Washington, DC
January 1987
“No!” Atcho was adamant. “I’ve been in this country seven years now. Why the sudden popularity?” While his classmate, an aide to the President’s National Security Advisor, spoke rapidly on the other end of the line, he looked through his window at trees bending before a blustery wind. Then he spoke again. “I’m privileged that President Reagan would consider honoring me in his State of the Union Address, but I could not possibly accept. I don’t deserve it, but thanks for thinking of me.” He hung up, shaken.
In the pre-dawn hours of the following morning, Atcho’s telephone rang, its harsh sound jarring him from deep sleep. His nerves tightened even before he heard the steely voice at the other end of the line. This was the normal hour for Govorov’s calls. The general had telephoned periodically over the past seven years to “develop and maintain their relationship.”
“Atcho.”
“What do you want? Are you finally going to make a traitor of me?”
“Now Atcho. Why do you describe things in such dramatic terms? You know I always have your best interest at heart when it comes to progressing your career. You must admit that you’ve prospered as a result of our association.”
“Get to the point, Govorov.”
“It’s General Govorov.” His voice was momentarily icy. “I hear that you have declined an opportunity that could provide a quantum leap in your development. I want you to change your mind.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Atcho, don’t play games. We both know about your classmate’s suggestion. The potential benefits are great for both of us.”
“I don’t want to do it, and the president will never pick me for such an honor.”
“I know there are no guarantees,” the general said reasonably. “Your classmate is going to ask you again to allow your nomination. I want you to accept.”
“No!”
“Atcho, that is not a request. You know I do not tolerate disobedience.” His laugh was harsh. “I’ve become quite fond of you and Isabel.” His tone grew steely. “But I will not hesitate to carry out my promises should you fail to follow my instructions. Do you have any questions?”
Atcho sat in stony silence for a moment. “Why do we never speak face-to-face? And how did you connect Atcho and Eduardo in the first place?”
The general chuckled. “Atcho, you always ask the same things.” He paused. “Goodbye.”
27
“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
At the sonorous announcement, Atcho rose to his feet with the crowd. From his position on the chamber balcony in the House of Representatives, his view of the entrance was blocked, but he knew the president would be shaking hands with House members and other dignitaries clustered about the door. He would make his way down the carpeted aisle, stopping to greet loyal followers and distinguished members of the opposition until he reached the imposing wooden dais at the front of the room. Then he would mount the great platform.
The vice president and the Speaker of the House were standing on the stage exchanging quiet pleasantries while waiting for the chief to take his position in an area just below them.
Atcho wondered what the two men talked about. He had seen them on television in earlier such sessions whispering to each other, then leaning back with a dignified chuckle over their inside joke.
Atcho imagined their conversation. “You’re a white-haired, pompous ass, Mr. Speaker. Do you ever say anything intelligent, or does your resemblance to a walrus prohibit that?”
“You have the nerve to talk to me that way only because we’re being watched by the nation. When this shindig is over, if you meet me on the street, I’ll wipe it clean with your wimpy little ass.”
The two men would lean back smiling, look in opposite directions, and rub their chins. Then they would regain serious expressions and feign renewed interest in the event taking place. They would clap lightly when appropriate.
Atcho gazed around at other notables. The secretaries of state, defense, and treasury sat together near the front. Curly, Larry, and Moe, Atcho thought in amusement. He chided himself for letting his imagination run riot.
The leading department of state official had an uncanny ability to look impassive even when the occasion called for an expression of excitement. He was a hard-working survivor, whose reputation and high ideals had rescued the administration’s credibility in the foreign policy arena more than a few times.
The war chief, as Atcho was wont to call the defense department head, was a small man with sharp, angular features. He was known for high intelligence and dedication to his current task, whether that meant reducing budgets or expanding them.
The secretary of the treasury looked like the smartest man in the room. He wore the quiet expression of one who was convinced of his own quality in that regard, with the confidence to use it. His current effort involved trying to reduce the national trade deficit by deliberately devaluing the dollar against foreign currencies. Atcho shook his head, unabl
e to fathom how the plan could work.
Continuing his surveillance, he rested his gaze on the senior senator from Massachusetts. This man puzzled Atcho. He was the most notable scion of one of the wealthiest and most glamorous families in the United States. Tragedy had followed him throughout his adult life, with every detail played in the public media. Yet it seemed that the senator brought upon himself many of his personal problems. Atcho wondered how the man could portray himself as champion of the downtrodden while his private life could be described only in less charitable terms. He shifted his gaze to a tall man at the front corner of the center aisle.
Every time Atcho saw this Texas congressman, he was left with a feeling of distaste. The man’s grin always seemed to hide a secret joke. Atcho had heard the Representative described as “supercilious” by constituents, and decided that the description fit. Rumors abounded that the congressman would be the next Speaker of the House, but Atcho did not believe the gossip. The man reminded Atcho of a grownup version of the boy in the old Our Gang films who always parted his hair down the middle.
A stir in the crowd below caught Atcho’s attention. President Ronald Reagan had come into view and moved down the aisle toward the rostrum. He waved to the crowd, face beaming with the smile that had won adulation from his countrymen. Atcho regarded him with admiration and affection. He had met him earlier that evening at a White House reception, and was amazed at how his warmth, so apparent in person, could pervade a crowd as large as this.
The “Gipper” took his seat. The Speaker rose to quell the applause, and allow everyone to be seated. To Atcho’s left, Isabel was taking her seat and Bob was sitting on her other side. The elegantly dressed First Lady, looking much younger than her years, sat on Atcho’s right. She smiled at him. “Are you nervous?”