by Lee Jackson
Praise for Lee Jackson
“Pure Gold! Atcho grabs you at the beginning, and won’t let go.”
Carmine Zozzora, Producer of Die Hard with a Vengeance and Color of Night
“With this page-turning thriller, Lee connects the brooding mystic Rasputin to the Cold War, traces his dark influence into the present, and makes it relevant to today’s churning world events. Stunning!”
Bill Thompson, Editor of Stephen King’s Carrie and John Grisham’s The Firm.
“Clearly one of the best books of historical fiction I have ever read. Extremely entertaining and educational at the same time.”
Lieutenant-General Rick Lynch (Retired), former Commanding General, 3rd Infantry Division during the Surge in Iraq.
“Wow! The story is gripping and plausible, the warning real. A must read.”
Joe Galloway, NYT Bestselling Author of We Were Soldiers Once...and Young (adapted to a Mel Gibson movie) and We Are Soldiers Still.
“Riveting! Lee Jackson takes you on a thrilling ride through the intrigue of the Soviet Union as it raced toward its final days. Feel the fight of those reaching for freedom against the chaos brought on by Rasputin. Couldn’t put it down.”
Kris “Tanto” Paronto, Hero of Benghazi, Bestselling Author of The Ranger Way.
RASPUTIN’S LEGACY
Lee Jackson
Copyright ©2016 All Rights Reserved
Stonewall Publishers, LLC
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
Author’s Note
DECLASSIFIED TOP SECRET PROFILE OF ATCHO
ENJOY THIS BOOK? MAKE A BIG DIFFERENCE…
GLOSSARY
Bonus 1: THE TRUE STORY BEHIND ATCHO
Bonus 2: SMACK DOWN
Bonus 3: ALEKSEY’S ACCOUNT OF RASPUTIN’S MURDER
ANOTHER BOOK BY THE AUTHOR
CURSE THE MOON (Excerpt)
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
30 December 1916 – St. Petersburg, Russia
On that freezing winter night, Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin came to what much of the Russian nobility regarded as his just end: he was murdered. A Russian nightmare had ended. The world’s nightmare had just begun.
November 1988 – A village outside of Paris, France
The heavy smell of fish soup assaulted the CIA officer’s nostrils. It came from two booths away. He had come into the tavern for a quiet drink before calling it a day, and had not expected to see the dark visage that scrutinized his own from that booth as he took his seat. He sucked in his breath, and quietly cursed himself for showing a rookie’s surprise.
The man knew he had been recognized. He appeared to be the central figure among men sitting around him, and the CIA officer recognized most of them. They belonged to a loose sect of zealots who revered a shadowy figure from Russia’s past, the mystic called Rasputin.
Sitting next to him was another smaller man the CIA officer did not know. He was older, but his bespectacled face was strikingly like the central figure, as though they could be related. That could be worrisome.
The presence of this group in the tavern with the sinister man in the booth seemed incongruous. The men had always seemed harmless, monitored only because of their ties to the former Imperial Russian royal family. And yet here they were, with him.
The CIA officer knew the last man well. He was KGB. Short, blond, and muscular. The two had shadowed each other for years across operations involving competing national interests in Paris. Now the Soviet operative stared at the American with a doleful, almost regretful expression.
The officer knew he had only minutes to report the existence of a man believed to be dead for over a year. The implications were unfathomable. He set his drink on the table, rose, and walked though the tavern. Even as he reached the exit he saw movement from the corner of his eye, and knew the blond KGB officer followed him.
Chapter 1
December 1988 – Washington, DC
Atcho pulled his 9mm Glock from his belt and threw his full weight against his oak town house door. Pain shot through his shoulder as the door crashed in, and he heard an anguished cry from the dark interior.
He pulled back, and drove harder. The door slammed forward, propelling someone against the inner wall. Atcho drew back and drove again, and again. He heard a muffled groan.
Crouching low, he stepped inside and pointed his pistol into the shadows, listening for signs of an additional intruder. He heard none. The door swung shut, but did not catch. He chambered a round. The sharp kerchink of steel on steel resounded.
A dark figure hurtled through the shadows. Atcho fired. He heard a gasp, and then fell back as a fist caught his throat and knocked him against furniture. He gulped for air. The intruder clutched his hair, pulled his head up, and slammed a fist into his chin.
Atcho’s temple pounded into the floor. He struggled to roll, but the man’s legs had his arms pinned. Atcho tried to raise his pistol, but his assailant rose, kicked it from his hand, and ran through the dark living room and out the back door.
Atcho found his gun, and followed. When he arrived in the backyard, it was empty. He went into the alley and checked both ways, stopping to listen. Nothing.
He walked back into his living room. The front door swung open and another figure stood silhouetted in the porch light. Atcho raised his pistol.
“Don’t shoot!” a voice called. “It’s me, Burly.”
Atcho loosened his grip on his gun only slightly. A light over the entrance flicked on, illuminating his big bald friend.
“What the hell?” Atcho groused. “I almost shot you.” He cleared his pistol and replaced it in its holster.
Burly stepped into the room, a retired CIA officer in his late fifties whose athletic body had softened with plenty of Irish ale and probably only intermittent exercise. He glanced about, noting the displaced furniture. “What happened?”
Atcho told him. Burly examined the front door. “Whoever it was had to be professional,” he said. “There are no marks on the lock and he knew the layout of your apartment.”
“He’s not all that professional,” Atcho growled. “He didn’t have a lookout, and I surprised him.” He looked at Burly curiously. “What are you doing here?”
Burly ignored the question. He crossed the room and leaned over a scarlet b
lotch on the floor. “You hit him,” he said. He followed a trail of small blood spots through the kitchen. “He’s not hurt bad. You must have grazed him.” He settled onto a plain beige couch and took in Atcho’s dark complexion and the silver strands streaking his otherwise jet-black hair. Atcho was a few years younger than Burly, and even in a suit, he looked a superb athlete. “Are you going to call the police?”
“I’ll file a report.”
Burly looked around at the meager furnishings. “Sofia has her work cut out for her. When’s the wedding?”
“Next month. I’m a little busy. Will you tell me why you’re here?”
Burly arched his brows. “I’m a courier this time.” His voice intoned reluctance. “I have a message for you.” He leaned back, but did not alter his gaze. “An invitation.”
“An invitation. You’re retired.”
“Yeah, I’m retired. The higher powers thought you might be more, uh,” he searched for a word, “amenable, if I approached you.”
Atcho showed his impatience. “I don’t have time for chitchat.”
“I know.” Burly held up his palms in a placating gesture. “Ronald Reagan requests your presence with me, in New York.”
“The president? Why? Why not here in DC?”
“Mikhail Gorbachev is there to address the United Nations. Reagan will be there to say goodbye before leaving office. It’s the last time they’ll be together officially. They’re both grateful about what we did last year, and want to say so.”
“The president wants to see us to say thank you—again? And Gorbachev too.” He stood. “Why wouldn’t he have a staff member arrange a meeting? Why send you?”
Burly looked nonplussed. “You need to go with me to New York. Sorry to call in a favor, but you need to do this. Get the cops over here and file a burglary report. I’ll handle them. Then we both need to be on an early morning flight to New York.”
They first flew to Denver. They had a layover for several hours before departing to New York City, with plenty of time to reflect. Atcho barely thought about the burglary; he kept nothing of value in his town house. But he was amused and irritated at the circuitous route that Burly had insisted they take to New York. Too much cloak and dagger.
Thoughts of his impending marriage brought images of Sofia to mind, and he smiled. She was a widow twelve years younger than he, and had worked for State Department Intelligence since before her marriage to her late husband.
He recalled when they had first met in the swelter of Havana. He, a just released political prisoner, gaunt, half-starved, unkempt, smelly. She, beautiful, elegant, kind. The twists of fortune that had brought them together, separated them, and then returned them to each other, were surreal; yet here they were, preparing to commit to a life together, if only the world will leave us alone to live our lives.
His thoughts returned to his current trip. Maybe Reagan and Gorbachev just want to avoid the press. By the time he landed, angst was just a dull sensation in the pit of his stomach.
Chapter 2
When Atcho and Burly arrived at the Long Island estate where the two heads of state would meet, Secret Service agents ushered them into the mansion’s library. Moments later, they heard a commotion outside the door. Burly opened it. A Secret Service agent blocked his passage, but did not obstruct his view. Atcho noticed that the two seemed to exchange glances. He joined Burly in the doorframe.
In the grand foyer beyond them, a throng of senior White House staffers, media luminaries, and camera crews were about to move past them like a wave of suited humanity. Ahead of them, President Ronald Reagan and Soviet Communist Party General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev walked together, apparently trying to confer above the din.
The president always impressed Atcho. He had heard rumors of waning lucidity, and searched for signs, but today, Reagan seemed in full control. No handlers hovered nearby.
Just as the two men drew even with the library door, they both stopped and gazed about the foyer while Reagan pointed out various architectural pieces of interest. Then he looked in Atcho’s direction, made eye contact, and nudged Gorbachev. The general secretary also made eye contact. They did the same with Burly.
Atcho stared back at them, fascinated by Gorbachev’s elongated birthmark over his left eye. He recalled how it had appeared through the scope of a high-powered rifle. Then both men moved on, and Reagan commenced once again to draw Gorbachev’s attention to points of interest.
The Secret Service agent moved in front of Atcho and Burly and closed the door, leaving them inside. Atcho turned on Burly. “That’s it,” he murmured. “You dragged me up here for that?”
Burly pulled him by the shoulder to a seating area, and they both sat down.
“What’s going on?” Atcho demanded. “What does Reagan want?” He was not prepared for what Burly told him.
“Govorov’s alive!” Atcho leaped from his chair and glared at Burly. “How is that possible? I buried a knife in his chest in Havana last year. Where is he? I’ll finish the job.”
Burly eyed him somberly. “Well, to start with,” he said, and his reluctance was obvious. “His real name isn’t Govorov. That was an alias he used for what KGB operatives called the ‘Atcho Project.’” He left that to sink in.
Atcho’s head jerked up. “Nice to get special attention,” he said sarcastically. “What’s his real name?”
“Officially, in Soviet intelligence circles, he is Borya Yermolov.”
Atcho shook his head. Yermolov, the erstwhile Govorov, had masterminded a plot to assassinate General Secretary Gorbachev a year earlier. Atcho had stopped him in bloody hand-to-hand combat on a military base outside of Havana.
“We thought you’d killed him too,” Burly went on. “So did the Soviets. We don’t know where he is.” He told Atcho that the Cuban Army had rushed Soviet General Yermolov to a hospital, and had worked overtime to save him. “You punctured his lung, but the knife glanced off a rib and missed his heart. He was comatose for a while.” Burly spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “The Soviet Embassy reported him dead.”
“And Moscow believed it?” Atcho groaned. “How could he escape Cuba without the KGB or the CIA knowing? Castro wouldn’t jeopardize the billions of rubles the Soviets send him.”
“Not overtly.” Burly broke into a wry smile. “It’s no secret he isn’t fond of the general secretary’s reforms. As long as he could keep Soviet aid flowing, Castro would help Yermolov.”
Atcho paced. “I suppose they want me to go after him.” He stared at the floor. “I just had my first full year of living normally. I’m not going back into a spook’s life.” He continued staring as he ruminated. “Yermolov won’t come after me. He’s too pragmatic for revenge. He has a plan and he’s implementing it.” He glanced at Burly. “Why would I look for trouble?”
“You just said you’d finish the job.”
“I know what I said.” Atcho’s eyes glinted. “Tell me where he is, and I’ll go after him. But I’m not going to spend months in shadows trying to find him. Get someone else to smoke him out.”
“Got it,” Burly rejoined. “Think of this. If the assassination had succeeded, the conspirators would be in power right now. Yermolov could be occupying a senior position in the KGB or on the Politburo.”
“Not my problem. Reagan is the guy who called the Soviet Union an evil empire. Now he wants me to help save that government?” He walked across the room to a window, and stared past the scenery into nowhere. “The Soviet Union helped a dictator kill Cuba.” He whirled around to face Burly. “You know what those people did to me personally—to my family.” Burly watched him. Fury lined Atcho’s face. “Give me one reason why I should care what happens to the Soviets.”
Burly stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know, buddy. If you refuse, no one will blame you. But picture Yermolov’s finger on the nuclear launch button. How safe would anyone be, including your family?”
Atcho stared at him. “They think he can do that?
How? He can’t have much of an organization.”
Burly sighed. Before he could answer, Atcho cut in again. “Reagan and Gorbachev are together on this. Why can’t the KGB go after him, or the CIA?”
“It’s complicated. Those two agencies must be kept out. The idea is to head him off at the pass. Will you sit down and listen?”
Atcho crossed to the couch. “Fine. Let’s hear it—only because you’re my friend.”
Burly exhaled, relieved. Before he could speak, Atcho interjected again. “There’s no way the CIA won’t pick up on this. Or the KGB. It’s too explosive.”
“You ’re right. A CIA officer saw Yermolov last month in Paris. The officer was killed shortly after he filed his report.”
“Killed?”
“Executed. We don’t know who did the hit, but it was a professional job. No witnesses.” He settled back in his chair. “For your information, the director of the CIA is in the loop. He’s not happy about the way the president wants to handle this, but he’ll live with it. We don’t know who inside the KGB might support Yermolov.”