by Lee Jackson
Ivan sat down next to the general’s head. “What do you want?”
Yermolov opened his eyes further. His chest shook as though he had laughed. No sound emerged. “You don’t like me.” His voice was barely audible. “Are you the officer who captured me?”
“I am.”
“Great job!” Yermolov’s admiration seemed genuine.
“I can’t take credit. I was glad to help.”
Yermolov turned his head slightly to get a better view, but still could do no better than glance from the corners of his eyes. “Ah,” he whispered. “You think I’m a traitor. Doesn’t matter. I don’t have strength to discuss.” He was surprisingly aware for a man recently coming out of a coma. “Gorbachev will destroy the Soviet Union.”
“Is that all, Yermolov? I have a plane to catch.”
The rogue general’s face tensed. “You don’t render military courtesies?” He glared at Ivan. Then he relaxed, composed. “I’m glad I met the Soviet officer who captured me.”
Ivan sat, impassive.
“I want to tell you this.” Yermolov placed his hand over Ivan’s arm. Even in his weakened state, he had a tough physique. As he spoke his next words, a heavy weight formed in Ivan’s abdomen. “My great-grandfather was the last tsar of Russia,” Yermolov hissed. His grip tightened. “My grandfather was Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin.” He glared at Ivan. “My day will come. Be ready when I call.”
He released his grip. Sinking into the pillows, he closed his eyes. “You are dismissed, Major Chekov. Go.”
Stunned, Ivan stared at the man. Yermolov said nothing more.
Two days later, Ivan arrived in Washington. He never mentioned the conversation. It seemed bizarre, the ravings of a madman.
Now Ivan lay in his bed in Paris, his muscles tensed. For the moment, his best course was to bide his time and look for a chance to call the number Yermolov had given him that night in Virginia. He was sure it was in France and might even be close by. An opportunity to escape and link up with Yermolov might occur when Atcho took him to observe the forested hill. I’ll watch for it.
On a trundle bed across the room, Atcho struggled with his own thoughts. Ivan’s seeming familiarity with Yermolov’s thinking was disconcerting. How long were they together in Havana? He did not see an alternative to Ivan. Having someone on hand to navigate the borders and inside the Soviet Union was crucial. If they could stop Yermolov from making the crossing they would avoid a lot of grief, but he doubted that Yermolov would wait long.
23
An hour after escaping her attackers near the Rasputin house, Sofia ducked into the consular services office at the American Embassy, using her regular passport to enter. Then, using her security credentials, she gained access to an office with a secure line. She bet with herself that Burly had not yet reached across the ocean through State Department channels. Nevertheless, she felt some angst as she entered and moved about the facility.
She dialed Burly’s number. “It’s me.”
“Where are you?” He was plainly both pleased and annoyed to hear her. “How did you get on a secure line? Will you get your butt back here?”
“Not so fast. I have information you can use.”
“You need to get back here. You’re endangering a mission.”
“Novosibirsk,” Sofia retorted. “Govorov is headed to Novosibirsk. He’s saying he’s a Romanov and Rasputin’s grandson.”
“You keep fixating on Govorov.” Burly sounded flustered. “If you’re going to keep talking about him, you should know that his real name is Borya Yermolov.”
Sofia took that in. She noted that Burly neither refuted nor showed surprise at her conclusion. “Let’s not play games. Yermolov is the commonality between Gorbachev, Reagan, and Atcho. There’s no other reason for both the general secretary and the president to call Atcho in. You know it, and I know it.” She felt rising anger. “I’m mad, and losing patience.”
Both were quiet, and then Burly said, “Let’s say that you’re in the ballpark. What’s the scoop on Novosibirsk? How did you get it?”
Sofia disregarded the question. “Yermolov is going to Novosibirsk. Tell Atcho. Tell Reagan it’s time to bring out the big guns.”
When Burly spoke again, his voice was low and deliberate. “Sofia, come in. That’s not a request. You’ve got to come in.”
Sofia started to protest, but Burly kept talking. The quiet of the secure facility closed around her like a shroud.
“This could get bad,” Burly went on. “You’re not helping. Atcho sent a message to the president four days ago. He said that if you were not home within a week, he was off the job.”
Sofia remained silent. She knew that Atcho would not be recalled, and he would not duck from completing such a crucial task.
“Sofia,” Burly broke in again, “listen carefully. Do you know what a NukeX is?”
Suddenly jarred to greater awareness, Sofia’s breath caught. “Yes,” she replied hesitantly.
“Atcho is going to need one,” Burly said bluntly.
Sofia’s mind spun. “Do you mean…”
“I can’t tell you more,” Burly interrupted, “but you can see how nasty things are getting.”
“Does Atcho know?”
“No. We had a courier set up to bring the device to him, but there was a delay in having it ready. We don’t need you there causing more distraction. You’ve got to come in.”
Sofia slumped against the back of her chair. She suddenly felt emotionally and physically spent. “Does Moscow know?”
“Yes.”
Sofia looked vacantly around the bare office. “All right. I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
“Why so long?”
“It’s a long drive.”
As soon as she hung up, Burly whirled around. “Did you locate her? She was on a secure line.”
“I think she’s in France,” a man told him, “but it’ll take a little time to confirm that.”
“Call the embassy in Paris. Get them looking for her. If she read the book, that’s where she would go. Did you get a tape of the conversation?”
“Yes.”
“Analyze for background noise. We’ve got to know where she is.”
***
With only minutes to spare, Sofia hurried aboard the train to Bern, Switzerland. The weight of Burly’s news of the NukeX bore down. As the train began its journey through the night, sleep eluded her. She knew her actions might end her career, but now that was hardly a consideration. Her mind reeled with the implications of Burly’s revelation: Atcho could be required to disarm a nuclear device.
She doubted that Burly expected to see her the next evening. He knew her too well to believe that she could be deterred. Having traced the call, he would try to determine her whereabouts. That should provide her enough time to pursue the next part of her loosely forming plan.
She arrived in Bern shortly after midnight, and spent the balance of the night in a small hotel. The next morning, she hailed a taxi. Her stomach tightened when it dropped her at her destination, the US Embassy. Her adrenaline rushed as she handed her passport and State Department ID to the civilian behind the glass-enclosed booth. He scanned it and compared her picture to her face. Satisfied, he returned them.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Burly hasn’t reached here yet. The attendant showed her where to sign the guest log and gave her an unescorted visitor’s badge.
The area reserved for intelligence analysis was always behind heavy doors with cypher locks, and included a steel-encased vault. Sofia remembered where it was from being assigned there several years ago. I hope Millie still works there.
She reached the third floor. A nondescript door with a sign stood at the end of the hall. This was the office she sought. She sucked in her breath. If an order comes to arrest me, this is where they’ll get it.
A young Marine sitting at a table blocked the hall. “This is a restricted area, ma’am. May I see your ID?”
Sofia’s throat cau
ght. She showed her visitor’s pass and pulled out her ID. The Marine examined both carefully, looked her over, and allowed her passage. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Sofia exhaled. “Do you know if Millie still works here?”
“Millie Brown? Yes, ma’am, the place couldn’t run without her. She’s in the vault. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
Moments later, a friendly voice called out. “Goodness gracious, Sofia, what are you doing here?” She turned and saw Millie, arms outstretched for a hug. “I am so glad to see you. I was thinking about you just the other day…”
Sofia had to laugh. This was vintage Millie: short, rotund, with dirty blonde hair, and nonstop talking. Millie was one of a handful of civilian intelligence specialists on staff to provide continuity between succeeding administrations. She might be friendly and exuberant, but she had gained the trust and confidence of the intelligence community by keen insights, not by missing things.
Sofia wanted to get right to the point of her visit, to acquire travel documents; but she could not appear hurried. Millie knew her way around. Embassy staff would respond to an unusual request because it was Millie who asked. Sofia was abusing their friendship to acquire what she needed. What if Burly has already reached here? She studied Millie’s face, but saw no vestige of hidden concern.
***
Five hours later, Sofia slumped into a seat on the train to Geneva. Pangs of guilt intruded on her thoughts. I owe Millie big time. Outside, the magnificence of the Alps cloaked in fresh snow swept by. She slept. Inside her bag were the documents she needed, signed by the ambassador, allowing her travel to Moscow.
24
Collins paced. After Marcel had closed the door behind him at the Rasputin house, he mentally kicked himself for giving his real name.
He was still in the Paris offices of the Washington Herald thinking through the events of the past two days, and trying to make sense of them in the context of Atcho’s movements. The office had closed for the day. He was alone with his thoughts.
He crossed to a window and stared at the snow blanketing the street. “How do I get in front of this story?” A whiteboard hung on the opposite wall with markers lying in a tray. “What do I know?” He wrote with a marker at the top of the board, and stared at the words, imploring them to speak. When nothing came, he made another entry and stood back. Nothing popped to mind. After more staring, he wrote furiously until completing his regurgitation of facts. Then he viewed what he had written:
NEW YORK: Reagan, Gorbachev, Atcho @ Long Island Estate
WASHINGTON, DC: Something happened on PA Ave last year, Atcho involved. Backfire/dead man
Atcho clammed up about meeting in NY.
Met in library. Rasputin book
AUSTIN: Atcho diversion
CALIFORNIA: Rasputin bio-author refuses to cooperate—saw surveillance team
PARIS:
1. From lead in Rasputin book—helped sick man/doctor off airplane— bogus call—sick man/doctor disappeared
2. Found Rasputin house—saw Atcho on same street—old lady morphs into young lady—beats up two guys
3. Beat-up man stopped @ Rasputin house to ask about elderly lady—man already known to occupants @ house
4. Met people in Rasputin house—grandfather tired of talking—wife friendly and open – husband friendly then tense – said ‘elderly lady’ was a writer
He sat down, still studying the board. After a while he prepared coffee while his brain cogitated. He had just poured a steaming cup when his eyes went once more to the whiteboard.
Suddenly, coffee forgotten, he ran to the phone and pounded out a number in DC. It was closing time there.
“Tom Jakes here,” came the laconic greeting of his editor.
“Don’t sign out yet, Tom. It’s me, Tony.” He instructed Jakes to write down the entries exactly as he had made them on the board.
“Done. So? Where are you going with this?”
He ignored the question. “Study it. Atcho is the only commonality in the first line where Gorbachev and Reagan appear, but Atcho and Rasputin are in the rest of the outline. In other words, Rasputin becomes relevant to Gorbachev and Reagan through Atcho.”
“I’m not sure I follow, but go on.”
“What’s common among those three people: Reagan, Gorbachev, and Atcho? Why would the heads of state of the two superpowers call him in?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t either, but the answer must lie in what happened last year. There’s a story that got past the news media.
“Think about it. Gorbachev comes to town to sign the arms reduction treaty. He stops to greet people on the street about the same time that a car backfires. Then, a manhunt gins up for Atcho over some real estate transactions. Jakes, since when do the police mount an all-points bulletin for real estate fraud?
“Then, just as suddenly the hunt is called off and the authorities say, ‘oh, we made a mistake.’ A year later Gorbachev and Reagan obviously bring Atcho to that Long Island estate. Suddenly all this excitement builds around Rasputin, and Atcho is in the middle of it. Doesn’t that seem beyond coincidence?”
Jakes had listened with increasing interest. “Are you still thinking that Atcho was involved in an assassination attempt?”
“I don’t know. But the guy across the street wound up dead.”
“There’s something else,” Jakes interjected. “Do you remember Sofia Stahl?”
“Sounds familiar. Was she at the State Department?”
“That’s her. We did a story about Atcho when he came out of Cuba, and again last January when Reagan honored him at the State of the Union address.”
“I remember.”
“She was one of the people we interviewed for background on the Atcho stories. She met him when he came through the Swiss Embassy in Havana. That was in 1981 before Castro threw him back into prison.”
“Got it. So?”
“She was supposed to marry Atcho next month. She’s disappeared.”
Startled, Collins sat back in his chair. His cynical mode kicked in. He was not a big believer in coincidence. “Anything else?”
“The investigative and intelligence authorities are keeping very hush-hush about this. No local authorities are looking for her.”
“What was her position at the State Department?”
“She was a director in one of the intelligence analysis sections.”
Collins leaped to his feet, stunned. “She has high security clearances, and they’re not blasting this out complete with a dragnet?”
“That’s not all. We’ve heard from three sources that she’s CIA.”
Collins looked at the receiver in disbelief. His mind flashed back to the lady he had seen morph from old to young and beat up two guys along the street by the Rasputin house. “What does she look like?”
“We’ll get pictures to you.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“Yes. I told you that local authorities are not looking for Ms. Stahl, but there is a search involving local authorities across Virginia.”
“What’s that about?”
“Libraries and bookstores are being told to report any lone women that come in asking for a book about Rasputin.”
“You’re kidding,” Collins breathed. “I told you. I told you we were onto something. Here’s what I need you to do.”
Jakes recited back Collins’ instructions. “Anything else?”
“Anything on the CIA guy or the burglary at Atcho’s house?”
“We’ve tracked down where he lives, but he hasn’t been home in days. I ran inquiries on him. He was in Cuba with Atcho, but so were several CIA guys. I couldn’t find anything current.”
“So, another person disappears. Interesting.”
After they hung up, Collins made his way back to his hotel. Darkness loitered outside the window, held back by the soft light of two lamps. He pulled Rasputin’s biography from his briefcase, and sank into the leather chair by the d
esk.
“What are you not yet telling me?” he murmured to Rasputin’s stern countenance staring at him from its cover. He started to read.
25
Collins glared at the phone on his desk in the hotel room. He was generally a patient man. At least he told himself that—but now he waited for information from members of his own team, specifically Tom Jakes.
He rubbed his eyes. He had slept little, having forced himself to read Rasputin’s biography in detail. While much was intriguing, he saw nothing that bore on current events or that might involve Atcho.
He read again the part about the religious sect in Paris, and although interesting, it underwhelmed for current political intrigue. Why is everyone so interested in Rasputin?
The phone rang. “Okay, Jakes, what’ve you got?”
“Geez, guy! Can you say hello! I checked what you asked me to, and came up with good stuff, but it’s off the record. The word from the source is that if any of this is published, we get no more.”
“Got it. Will it help?”
“You be the judge. All the information came from within the Secret Service. There never was any real estate fraud involving Atcho. That was trumped-up.”
Collins’ excitement leaped. “Why did they generate the story?”
“Because Atcho punched out one of their guys. There was a body found in a building down the street from where the car backfired during the Gorbachev visit. The man had a sniper rifle. He was killed by another high-powered rifle from an office across the street. Atcho owns it.”
Collins’ mind churned. He knew Atcho owned the building, and he knew about the body across the street. He had not known about the rifles or Atcho’s interaction with the Secret Service. “How did he end up punching the Secret Service guy?”
Jakes said that when the car backfired, people thought it was a rifle shot. The Secret Service did, too. They fanned out, and several agents went into Atcho’s building. They broke the door down to the office directly across from where the dead body was later found. There was nothing in the office, but when they went into the men’s restroom down the hall, they found Atcho.