by Lee Jackson
They reached a landing with a single door where the lead escort motioned for Collins to enter. When he did, his jaw dropped. The office in which he found himself was huge. Emblazoned on the opposite wall was a carved symbol of the Soviet Union. Behind a desk was the red national flag, with the hammer and sickle. Collins’ attention focused on the man advancing toward him, Mikhail Gorbachev.
“Sit down, Mr. Collins.” He indicated a seating area around a small table with a pitcher of water and some glasses. His manner was courteous but stern, and he did not offer to shake hands. Collins took the seat. Gorbachev sat opposite him.
“We don’t have much time,” Gorbachev said. “Mr. Reagan passes along his regrets that you did not accept his invitation.” He spoke in English, which surprised Collins at first, but then he remembered that the general secretary had spoken English with Margaret Thatcher prior to taking office, and had only confined himself to Russian since then.
Still in mild shock, Collins could only manage, “I understand.”
“I hope you do. This is not the United States. There is no record of the ticket you purchased in Paris last night, or of your having boarded the flight to Moscow. You were last seen getting on the Concorde, and then you disappeared. No one knows you’re here. This is the Soviet Union.”
“Is your intent to intimidate me?”
“Am I succeeding?”
Collins bestowed a wan smile on him. “Yes, you are.”
“Good, then let’s get to business. Why did you divert to Moscow?”
Collins was at a loss for a response. He breathed deeply and finally asked, “Do you know who Atcho is?” Gorbachev nodded. Collins went on, “I saw him and his group in Paris, waiting on a flight to Moscow.”
“You followed them. I see. I know where they are. Mr. Reagan said you intended to inquire into related matters, things he wanted to discuss with you. Tell me what you think you know. Be thorough.”
Collins looked around. He had been a reporter too long for his emotions to run rampant, but he could not recall a more pressured situation. He indicated the pitcher of water on the table. “May I have a drink?”
“Of course. Allow me.”
That General Secretary Gorbachev of the Soviet Communist Party poured his glass of water was not lost on the reporter. He took a sip. “Where should I start?”
“At the beginning. Tell me what you think you know.”
Collins nodded and took another sip. “I saw Atcho in New York at a meeting with you and President Reagan. No conjecture.” Gorbachev did not react. On impulse, Collins said, “I can either take you step by step through each detail, or I can tell you my conclusions. I think I have a good understanding of what is going on.”
“By all means, tell me your understanding.” Gorbachev’s tone bordered on condescension.
“There was an assassination attempt on your life last year in the United States. Atcho stopped it. For that reason, he gained yours and Mr. Reagan’s confidence.” Collins searched the general secretary’s face for a reaction, but was met only by a steady gaze. Collins took a mental leap. “Someone inside your country is pushing a credible claim to being a descendant of both Tsar Nicholas and Rasputin.” He looked for an expression of ridicule on Gorbachev’s face, but again saw only impassivity. I’m in the ballpark!
He took another mental leap. “That person is tied in with the assassination attempt last year. You can’t turn to the KGB because some elements support him. The CIA can’t help because it’s an internal matter here in your country.” No reaction. “You turned to Atcho because he knows who the assassin is, and both you and Reagan trust him.”
Gorbachev scoffed. “Those are interesting conclusions, but not plausible. Is that all?”
“No. Atcho is headed to Novosibirsk, Rasputin’s birthplace.”
“What do you think this supposed assassin might do, or who he might be?”
Collins sat deep in thought. “I don’t know.” He suddenly thought of the conversation with Jakes about Paul Clary’s disappearance, and his pulse surged. He spoke slowly and deliberately now, and watched the general secretary closely. “You probably know that a US Air Force general disappeared last year. Completely vanished, and his family, too.” He thought he saw Gorbachev’s eyes narrow. “He was last seen on the same day as the assassination attempt. I’m betting that the missing general is tied in with all of this.”
Now Collins’ mind raced, his speech speeded up, and he leaned forward in his seat. “That’s it, isn’t it. General Clary was a nuclear arms expert. Was he KGB? Then he must have worked—” His voice rose in excitement. He stopped and stared at Gorbachev. “Was he the assassin? Is he planning a coup?”
“Mr. Collins!” The general secretary spoke sharply. He returned the reporter’s startled gaze without speaking. Then he leaned forward. “Your conclusions are preposterous, but let me ask you this: if you print articles along the lines of what Mr. Jakes indicated to the White House, and if any part of what you say is true, what do you think might be the ramifications?”
Collins settled back in his seat. He was embarrassed. Getting carried away was unusual for him. But I have the story. I’m certain of it. “Impossible to say for sure. This individual could be alerted to efforts to stop him. He might move up his timetable.”
“Then you see that turning the story loose could be damaging?”
Stunned, Collins took another moment to think. Did he just tacitly confirm my theory? “If you ask Mr. Reagan, he will tell you that I’ve held back stories that could cause public harm.”
Gorbachev studied him a moment. “I know,” he said in a low voice, “which is why we are talking. Otherwise, I would have taken different measures.”
Collins felt a sudden pricking across his forehead, an involuntary reaction to what the chairman had just said. He started to speak. Gorbachev cut him off. “Listen carefully. I will tell you what is about to happen.”
Collins felt the bristles rise on his neck.
“You will be escorted from here to the airport where you will be kept under armed guard, until you board the most direct flight to Washington. Members of both my personal security detail and US State Department security will be on the airplane. When you arrive, you will be taken to meet with President Reagan. Is that understood?”
Collins nodded.
“Mr. Reagan assured me that he will convince you to use good sense and keep your suppositions to yourself. And you and I never had this meeting. Is that clear?”
Collins met his steady gaze. “We are a long way from printing a story. Fact-checking will be extensive.”
“Good. If a time ever comes to break a story, we might invite you for interviews. But, we will see your articles before publication. If you had stood me up, your treatment would have been quite different.” He glowered. “I’m certain that your actions will cost you, even with Mr. Reagan.”
Despite the ominous comment, Collins felt a spark of excitement. I’m going to get the story. “I understand.”
For the first time, Gorbachev allowed a faint smile, and started to rise as if to terminate the meeting. Lost in thought, Collins kept his seat.
“Is there something else?”
Collins snapped back to the present. “Sorry. I had a thought. Maybe I could help?” The general secretary settled back into his chair.
***
When he landed around noon at Washington Dulles International Airport, two Secret Service agents met Collins at the gate. They escorted him in a dark sedan to Dogwood Cabin at Camp David, the retreat of US presidents in the Catoctin Mountain Park, Maryland. The situation chafed the charm. His escorts silently indicated that he should vacate the car and enter the cabin.
A grizzled, Irish-looking man waited for him at the door as he tramped through the snow up the walkway. Collins scrutinized his face.
“I’ve seen you before,” Collins said. “You were with Atcho in New York at that Long Island estate.” On instinct, he asked, “Are you his CIA buddy?”
Burly said nothing, but gestured for Collins to enter. Then he led into the living room and indicated a chair.
“Where’s the president?” Collins asked. “I’m here to see him.”
Burly grunted. “You’re here to do exactly as you’re told,” he said, and there was nothing friendly in his manner.
Collins stared, and then stood. “I’ll be going now. Tell the president I’m sorry we missed each other.”
“Suit yourself,” Burly said. “Those guys will be very happy to lock you in a cell.”
Collins glanced out the window. The Secret Service sedan was still there. Where did you think you were going anyway? He sat back down. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” He felt like a misbehaved schoolboy about to be scolded.
“Yeah,” Burly replied. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. You’re going to stay put right here at Camp David until this whole mess blows over. You can stay here in this warm, comfy cabin, or you can stay in a cold room with bars. Your choice.”
Burly seemed to be warming to an argument. He pulled himself forward so that his eyes were level with Collins’. “Where do you get off blowing off the US president? You’ve been tromping all over the world disrupting sensitive operations and putting friends of mine in harm’s way.”
Collins felt a flash of ire. “I’m a reporter. I go after the story. That’s what I do.” He lowered his voice. “I did not intentionally disrespect the president. The story ran in a direction that did not go through the Oval Office.”
Just then a young Secret Service agent, identified by his dark suit and curly wire behind his ear, burst through the door. His face serious, and without saying a word, he moved from room to room in the cabin, and then called, “Clear!”
A moment later, Ronald Reagan strode in. Collins sprang to his feet. “Mr. President!”
“Tony,” the president responded coolly, ignoring Collins’ outstretched hand. “How was Moscow?” His irritation was palpable. He settled onto a couch. “Mr. Gorbachev briefed me on your conclusions. He also filled me in on your idea. We need to talk about that.”
“Yes, sir.”
Collins sat in an overstuffed chair across from him, and watched for signs of Reagan’s waning lucidity as reported in the news.
The president seemed sharp enough today. He sat eyeing Collins, clearly irritated. “Mr. Gorbachev told me you want to write a story,” he said. “If that’s all we needed, what makes you think we couldn’t pull in a reporter? On either side of the Atlantic?”
Collins sat back. He had not seen that question coming. “You could do that,” he replied slowly as he gathered his thoughts. “I’m guessing that the wayward general who wants to spring a coup is already in Novosibirsk, and that Atcho is there to disrupt him.”
That statement was pure speculation. At the time, Collins knew only of the existence of Paul Clary, not Yermolov. He surmised that someone led the conspiracy, and that Paul Clary was implicated with members of the KGB and the legend of Rasputin. Atcho must have some reason for flying to Novosibirsk.
Reagan held his steady gaze. “So? Why do we need you?”
Collins flared. “Because I’m the reporter who knows the story. I know what to do. Now.”
Reagan looked doubtful.
“I’m known,” Collins persisted. “I have an international following.” Reagan did not appear impressed. “Look,” Collins said, approaching exasperation. Before he could continue, Burly stirred in his chair and shot him a menacing glance. Reagan waved Burly back with his hand.
“This is a shot in the dark,” Collins went on. “I might provide a disruption, or at least a distraction, or I might have no effect at all.” He explained the idea he had outlined to Mikhail Gorbachev.
Twenty minutes later, Reagan leaned back in concentrated thought. “All right,” he said at last. “It’s worth a try, but here are the conditions: you’ll stay here at Camp David and use my staff for whatever research you need. We’ll provide a direct, secure line to your editor so that you have unimpeded communication—”
“Why stay here?” Collins interrupted. “I can get—”
Reagan stopped him with a raised hand. “That’s not negotiable.” He turned to Burly. “Tell him the repercussions if he declines.”
What Burly said was terrifying to a reporter. He told Collins that if he refused the conditions, that his passport and press credentials would be suspended until the entire matter was settled. The president would issue an order prohibiting federal employees from granting an interview with him or providing information on any story, on or off the record. Indefinitely.
As he spoke, Collins felt redness creeping up the back of his neck and into his cheeks. His eyes narrowed. He stared at the president.
“If that’s not enough to hold you,” Burly concluded, “we can look at other measures.” While Burly spoke, Reagan’s expression changed to one indicating that he was done with discussion.
Collins was not done. He gestured toward Burly in disgust. “You make me a prisoner, and let this man threaten my livelihood?” Burly glowered at him.
Reagan drew back. His eyebrows tightened. “You compromised a sensitive operation.” His tone was terse. “We can implement your idea with or without you. You choose.”
Collins grimaced. “What if I give you my word to stay in my office?”
Reagan dropped his head. When he looked up, his eyes had regained their famous twinkle. The edges of his mouth held the hint of a smile. “How about if you accept my invitation to stay here for a few days?” His smile broadened. “As my guest.”
Despite his frustration, Collins could not help but return the smile. I’m outgunned. “Am I free to leave whenever I choose?”
Reagan threw his head back and laughed. “Of course. This is a free country.” Without losing his jaunty smile, he continued, “If you leave, you just won’t be able to work on this or any other story involving the federal government, until it’s all over.”
Collins gave him a sidelong glance. “Can I use my own research staff? I’ve got to get the articles to them for publication anyway. Your guys can monitor our calls. I’ll keep my nose clean.”
Reagan considered that for a moment. “All right, we can do that.”
Collins shifted his glance to the snow beyond the window. He let it rest there and then looked around the room. “How’s room service? Can I get beer and chocolate doughnuts?”
“I think we can handle that?” Reagan replied congenially.
Across the room, Burly shook his head, obviously not impressed.
***
Late the following afternoon, Collins called Jakes. He had worked all night and through the day. “Did you get everything?”
“We did,” the editor replied. “We included the final edits and two side stories just before press time. They’re out to all the news wires. Moscow will wake up to them on the first page of Izvestia and Pravda. The main story will show above the fold as a side column. It should get a lot of attention.”
“Great! I’ll kick back, watch TV, and wait for sparks to fly.”
34
As her plane circled above Moscow on its flight from Bern, Sofia looked across the frozen city. She had no way of knowing that Atcho and his companions—and Collins—were also landing on a flight from Paris.
Minders would follow her; that was certain. She traveled under her own identity using her diplomatic passport, so her priority was to visit the US Embassy. Government personnel of her stature and level of security clearance were required to register on arrival in the country. Her minders would expect her to go there. To do otherwise would invite unwelcome Soviet security attention.
As soon as she processed through customs she spotted her two minders. Later, when she emerged from the embassy without incident, she spotted them again. She made her way to the Metropol Hotel, the architectural treasure built before the Russian Revolution. Inside, she sensed the gloomy supremacy of a tyrannical bureaucracy over creative craf
tsmanship; the once majestic building still adorned with fading classical artwork was in a deplorable state of maintenance.
The next morning, she came awake with a start after a restless night, and sat up with the sheets draped over her legs while she contemplated her next move. The implication of Burly’s statement that Atcho would need a NukeX bore down on her, but for the moment, that was beyond her ability to affect.
She was certain that Yermolov believed himself to be descended from a Romanov and Rasputin; that he intended a coup in the Soviet Union; and that Mikhail Gorbachev and Ronald Reagan found the threat credible enough that they cooperated to stop him.
She found outlandish the idea that the erstwhile General Clary, aka Yermolov, might attempt a coup—and might be carrying a nuclear device. She remembered meeting him at a barbecue at his home on a beautiful spring afternoon in Washington, with laughter, and the aroma of sizzling beef floating on the breeze. She had met his wife, Peggy, and their daughter Chrissy. They had been so wholesome. He had seemed so normal, so pleasant. How could General Clary and General Yermolov be the same person? She had been dumbfounded to learn of the dual life.
She shook off the thought. “You’re in the intelligence business, lady,” she told herself. “You see a lot of strange things.”
The thought that had developed as she made her way from Bern to Moscow was that Yermolov seemed intent on using members of the Church to advance his agenda. Maybe I can make contact within the Church to give warning in Novosibirsk. The most famous Russian Orthodox cathedral in the world was barely a half a mile from the hotel. Although it was now a museum, she might pick up a piece of information there that could help.
She left the hotel and walked in that direction. Behind her, the two minders struggled to keep up. Soon, she came into view of the Kremlin. A little farther on she entered Red Square, site of massive military parades, complete with rockets, intended to project Soviet strength. At the far end was the splendid St. Basil’s Cathedral, Sofia’s destination.