by Lee Jackson
He explained the maneuvers they had executed. “The car did not pursue back onto the main road.”
“Who was the woman?”
“I don’t know. She was not someone that Marcel or Francine were acquainted with.”
Yermolov sat deep in thought. When he spoke again, his eyes were half-closed. “Let’s go over what we know. Neither Reagan nor Gorbachev is overtly mounting a search, not even a covert one with intelligence assets. That’s not normal.
“Next, a surveillance team in California sees Tony Collins at the house of the author of Rasputin’s biography linking the group of followers here in Paris.
“Then we learned that Chekov was killed in an accident, but there’s no proof of his death. And Collins comes to Paris.”
Yermolov tapped his fingers on the table while he contemplated. “If I were Reagan or Gorbachev, I’d keep a search as quiet as possible. I’d choose a man we both trusted, who had already captured me once. That’s Atcho.”
Yermolov closed his eyes as he pieced together data bits. “Meanwhile, Atcho and Ms. Stahl both vanished, and she’s CIA.”
He lingered in thought. When he spoke again, he was calm but his voice was icy. “Executive Officer.” He spoke directly to Drygin. “Accelerate our plans. I want to be off this hill within two days.
“Circulate Atcho’s and Ms. Stahl’s pictures and issue an alert, but don’t use a lot of resources to search for them. We don’t want them to be picked up by the wrong people.”
He stood abruptly, and his staff sprang to its feet. He turned to Drygin, his eyes burning with intensity. “Get back to Aleksey’s house, and find out who that woman is. Bring her to me. Do it now.”
18
Sofia had watched the car go by behind the blue sedan. It caught her attention because it was in shadows, with the sun reflecting off its windshield, in perfect position to observe the house. She also took note of its departure, simultaneous with the blue sedan.
Finding this house had not been difficult. From the information in the Rasputin biography, an attendant at a tourist bureau had helped narrow down to this neighborhood. A few inquiries with residents had brought her to this address. She hoped to learn something to lead her to Atcho or indicate Yermolov’s intentions, but she still had no idea why Burly directed her to Rasputin’s followers.
“Have you lived here long?” she asked the young couple. “I’ve been researching the area for a possible book.” She spoke with a southern French accent.
“Come inside where we can talk,” the woman said. “This is my husband, Marcel, and I am Francine. We both grew up in this neighborhood.”
The smell of fish from the stewpot assaulted Sofia’s nostrils. “What is that?”
Marcel and Francine laughed. “Fish soup. We’ve been taking it out to some people every day for several weeks,” Francine said. “The man in the blue car came to tell us we didn’t need to do it anymore. What a relief.”
Marcel left on errands. Francine picked up the stewpot and led Sofia into the house. It was a simple concrete structure, painted light beige and surrounded by a well-kept but dormant garden. Doesn’t seem threatening. They settled into the kitchen.
“Why were you taking that soup out to them?”
“It’s a religious tradition started by Rasputin, the mystic who served Tsar Nicholas.”
“Seriously? The last Russian tsar?” Sofia remembered the soup stories from the Rasputin biography, but feigned ignorance on the matter. “Why would that man want you bringing it out all the time?”
“I don’t know. He came by a few weeks ago to visit Marcel’s Grandfather Aleksey. When he left, Grandfather told us to take it to him. It was Rasputin’s favorite, and some people in our religion revere it like holy water. Grandfather was Rasputin’s servant and made the recipe for him.”
Sofia stared. “Marcel’s grandfather was around when Rasputin was alive? And he’s in this house now?”
“Certainly. He’s almost ninety, but very much alive. Maybe the soup keeps him healthy.” She laughed again.
A very old man shuffled in. He leaned on a cane and peered at Sofia with intelligent eyes. Francine guided him to an empty chair and introduced him. “This is Marcel’s grandfather.”
Sofia rose to greet him. “I feel like I’m in the presence of history,” she said. “Francine told me that you knew Rasputin?”
The old man looked at her with a jovial grin. “Rah rah Rasputin,” he said, and coughing laughter shook his body. “Call me Aleksey. What are you doing here?”
“I’m a writer. I’m thinking of doing a book on Rasputin and his effect on the Russian Orthodox Church. What I haven’t figured out is why there is such reverence for him.”
Aleksey replied with disgust befitting someone who had lived through too many global traumatic events. “He should not be revered. He was an evil man. I was there when he was murdered and when this Soviet monstrosity began.” He forced a smile. “Never helps to dwell on the past.”
Surprised at his vehemence, Sofia asked, “How did Rasputin’s death and the fall of the tsar happen?”
Aleksey waved a hand. “When Germany sent Lenin into Russia they created a whirlwind.” Outrage still boiled. “They started a civil war in Russia to stop the threat against Germany, but they created hell for the whole world. Lenin promised the people everything. He delivered slavery.” He shook his head. “No different than any tyrant. They come in unknown, rise to power on the backs of people, and then lower the boom.”
“How did Rasputin bring that about?”
“He was close to the tsarevna. That’s how he exercised power.” He made the statement as if it were self-explanatory.
Sofia pressed him. “How did that work?”
Aleksey sighed. “The tsar was a weak personality. He did whatever his wife told him. She did whatever Rasputin instructed. He mainly exercised influence by recommending ministerial appointments, and making them stick. Then, he’d dictate to the ministers. If they opposed him, he’d get them fired, or worse.
“The aristocracy hated Rasputin because of his power and the way he publicly humiliated them. They were afraid he would destroy the country. They murdered him to save Russia, but they were too late. Lenin was already on his way.”
“So why would people revere Rasputin?” Sofia felt pressed for time. What does any of this have to do with here and now?
She listened intently as Aleksey told of the history and legend surrounding Rasputin and the fall of the Russian monarchy. He seemed practiced in telling it and enjoyed doing so, but she heard no helpful information. She hesitated before asking her next question. “Can you tell me about the night he was murdered?”
Aleksey nodded somberly. “That was a strange day, and a horrible night,” he began in a voice hoarse with age. He told a surreal story of aristocrats who lured Rasputin to a sumptuous palace on the promise of a dalliance with the beautiful wife of a pliable prince. When the mystic didn’t die from poisoning, they shot him, and stuffed his body through a hole in the ice of River Neva.
As the afternoon wore on, Sofia felt despair weighing in. Although intriguing, all she had gained was a secondhand account of the murder. Her spirits sank. On impulse, she asked, “Does anyone really worship Rasputin?”
Aleksey chuckled. He jabbed a finger at her. “A lot of refugees that escaped Russia were poor people that Rasputin had helped. They were grateful to his memory. I guess since they’re mainly members of the Russian Orthodox Church, you could call them a sect. But to say they worship him? That’s not for me to say.”
Sofia glanced at her watch. She was shocked to see that nearly three hours had passed. “I’ve taken up so much of your time,” she said. Her spirits had sunk to dismal. “I’d better go.” I still don’t know how any of this relates to Atcho or Govorov.
They ambled toward the front door. Daylight waned outside the window, throwing a pall over the room. Sofia had a sudden thought. “May I ask one more question? You said others had recently in
quired about Rasputin. What do you think is suddenly driving such interest?”
Aleksey shook his head. “I don’t know. A man came here weeks ago. He thinks I’m the leader of this supposed sect. He insisted his group members are devout Rasputin followers. He wanted to pay us to deliver the soup.” He chuckled. “I don’t think he really liked the soup. He just wanted to get close to us.”
“Do you mean the man who was here today?” Francine interrupted. “He came to tell us to stop deliveries. He said his group knows it’s an imposition.”
“Good,” Aleksey said. “That was a burden on you and Marcel.”
“The man in the blue car?” Sofia interjected. “Is he the one who came by weeks ago? Why would he want to get close to you?”
“He wanted help contacting Rasputin followers in Novosibirsk,” Aleksey replied. “There are a lot of Russian Orthodox members there, some who revered Rasputin.” He stood still as though capturing a thought. “He told me something strange when he first came. It seemed so far-fetched, I dismissed it.”
Sofia looked at him quizzically. “What was that?”
Aleksey searched his memory before responding. “He wanted funding and a place for a large group to stay for a few weeks. We were happy to consider his request, and we let them use some hunting cabins we have outside of Paris, and some cars.”
“Did he say what the funds were for?”
“Yes. They want to return a member of the tsar’s family to Russia. He said this man was also Rasputin’s grandson.”
Sofia’s breath caught, and a sense of foreboding spread through her mind and gut. That’s it! Govorov thinks he’s a Romanov and Rasputin’s grandson. Her survival instinct kicked into high gear. The man in the blue car must have noticed her.
Taking pains not to be rude, Sofia said her goodbyes and hurried away under waning sunlight. A recessed section of the wall lining the street was already in shadows, deepened by the column of trees along the sidewalk. Seeing no one, she stepped into it.
When she emerged two minutes later, she was shapely, wore stylish slacks, a smart jacket, and a red wig. The trappings of an elderly lady were now in her book bag.
Her heart pounded as she headed toward the commercial center. Despite her changed appearance, she was still the only pedestrian on the street that she could see. If that blue sedan approached now, the occupants would surely scrutinize her, or worse.
Screeching tires rounding the corner at the commercial intersection broke the quiet. The blue sedan swerved to the curb in front of her. She glanced at it, projecting nonchalance. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and only streetlights broke the darkness.
Two men stepped out of the car. The nearest one called to her. She ignored him and increased her pace. She heard footsteps behind her. A heavy hand grabbed her shoulder.
Sofia seized it just below the wrist. While forcing it up with all her strength, she dropped her full weight, and heard the wrist crack. The man cried out in pain.
Sofia rolled away and jumped to her feet. Her right leg swung in an arc that caught his chin and sent him sprawling.
The second man moved in. Sofia had time only to note that he was not a large man but very muscular, and even in this light, his cold blue eyes bored through her.
She pivoted in the opposite direction, striking the man’s groin. He groaned and grabbed himself. Sofia spun full circle and faced him. Painfully immobilized, he glared at her in the lamplight.
Sofia lowered her head and rushed in. She leaped into the air and brought her right foot forward to strike under his chin. He crumpled backward. Sofia ran as hard as she could.
19
Yermolov tapped the table in the conference room. He felt an invisible ring tightening around him. He had expected that Reagan and Gorbachev might cooperate to pursue him. That made sense.
If regular intelligence resources had been used to track him, the actions of operatives sent against him would be predictable. That was particularly true on the Soviet side, where Yermolov had served the KGB clandestinely for decades.
But Atcho was an intelligence amateur, moving on instinct—unpredictable—and highly effective. He was now sure to be trusted by Reagan and Gorbachev, and he knew and had stopped Yermolov before. He was an obvious choice.
Yermolov rubbed his scars. That quality of doing something entirely unexpected on a large scale and in plain sight made Atcho dangerous. He recalled that Atcho had killed a backup sniper and escaped in broad daylight in the presence of thousands, including Gorbachev’s personal security and the US Secret Service.
Still, Yermolov planned to expend no resources searching for him. Movement to Novosibirsk was only two days away. There, if Atcho became an irritant, he would let the KGB deal with him.
Drygin entered, his face implacable.
“Did you find the woman?” Yermolov asked.
“No. She had left by the time we arrived.” He did not mention that his groin still ached where Sofia had kicked him. He was chagrinned that he had gone looking for an old woman and had gotten beat up by a girl. He had only wanted to ask if she had seen the lady. He did not mention that medics had treated his driver for a fractured wrist.
“Do they have any idea who the woman was or where she lives?”
“No. I spoke with Aleksey’s grandson, Marcel. He said she was a nice woman writing a book. She wanted to know about Rasputin.”
Yermolov thought a moment. “All this interest in Rasputin. It’s come up quickly. Can you trust Aleksey’s group?”
“They’re harmless. Whether the woman was a danger wouldn’t enter their minds. It’s not a matter of trust. We’ve told them nothing. We’ve been able to move around invisibly because of them.” He reminded Yermolov that the group had contributed money and the use of the cars and the cabins. “They serve us well.”
Yermolov searched Drygin’s face. “You’re fond of them.”
The cool blue eyes met his scrutiny. “I’m pragmatic. Aleksey is an old man who settled in a good place. His position with Rasputin turned him into a quiet legend. That helped us. We should take care to maintain a show of respect.”
“In other words, you didn’t press them.”
“Correct. I saw nothing to be gained, and sensed no threat.”
“I hope you’re right.” Yermolov shifted in his seat. He made a mental switch to another subject. “It’s time to move. Atcho is coming for us. I feel it. Our advantage lies in staying ahead of him. When is the soonest we can transfer to Romania?”
“On your order.”
“Give it. I want to be gone by tomorrow afternoon.”
20
Although alone, Collins grumbled out loud. He was in a nondescript office that served as the Paris bureau for the Washington Herald. Night had settled and the staff had vacated hours earlier. The heat had been turned down. Cold permeated the room.
He felt dismay as he reviewed events. Most startling was his encounter with Atcho on the street corner. He had taken a taxi to the vicinity of the address his editor had supplied, and had hoped to find members of the Rasputin religious sect there.
He had exited the cab several blocks before his destination, and continued on foot. When he saw Atcho appear in a car right in front of him at the intersection of the exact street he sought, he was amazed. Days had passed since they had first met in DC. He saw Atcho now before Atcho saw him, and the reaction amused Collins. He watched the car speed off, and grinned behind his collar. “I’m catching up to you, Atcho.”
He turned into the residential area. After a few hundred meters, a gate to one of the houses stood open. A young man and woman and an elderly lady conversed at the rear of a car.
Before Collins could reach them, the young woman picked up a cooking pot from the ground, and all three entered the house. He pulled a crinkled slip of paper from his pocket and checked the address written there against the street number posted on the gate. This was the house he sought.
“So, Atcho,” he murmured. “No way you
were on this street by coincidence. You’re tied to Rasputin somehow. Maybe that was you paging me at the airport.”
He strolled to a park bench down the street. It was the same one where Atcho had sat to watch the house four days earlier.
He stayed there for hours. Occasionally, he got up and moved to other benches located along the street. Shadows lengthened. Just as early evening turned into the half-light of dusk, he heard the garden gate opening. The elderly lady stepped through and hurried toward the commercial thoroughfare, away from him.
He kept his seat. He wanted to speak with her, but approaching on a darkening street could be misconstrued, so he lingered behind, intending to catch up in the commercial area.
Then, as the lady continued along the sidewalk, her stride seemed to lengthen. Collins started after her, being careful to keep a distance. Her stride increased into one showing younger vitality.
Behind Collins, the sun dipped below the horizon. Shadows formed under the columns of trees between the street and the wall. Ahead was a recessed section already in darkness. As he watched from half a block away, the woman glanced around and stepped into it.
After barely two minutes, a seemingly much younger woman emerged. She was shapely and stylish, and she walked with the energy that the elderly lady had exhibited just before entering the shadows. Her hair was now red.
Collins’ pulse quickened and he started after her again. When he was at the recession in the wall, he stepped in momentarily, saw that it was empty, and hurried after her. He had no idea then that this was Sofia.
A blue sedan rounded the corner. The smell of hot rubber accompanied the screech of tires as the sedan pulled to a stop by Sofia. Two men leaped out and accosted her. Then a flurry of action happened so fast that Collins barely took it in. The two men fell to the ground, one after the other, and Sofia took off in a dead run.