by Lee Jackson
“Then there’s this incident with Collins. Unless there’s a major story, he is far too influential to be spending time on dead-end leads or background articles on Rasputin, and the timing is too coincidental.
“Finally, Chekov’s disappearance.” He glowered at the men, and by degrees he shed his air of amiability. His staff officers stirred uneasily, but kept their eyes fixed on him.
His tone turned sarcastic. “Major Ivan Chekov was the field officer the KGB sent to capture me.” He stared into nothingness while his right hand massaged the scars on his chest. “Was he identified by his teeth?”
The intelligence officer’s face blanched. “We didn’t ask.”
Yermolov slammed his fist on the table. “You didn’t ask? If he can’t be positively identified by his teeth, don’t you think that would be suspicious?” He glared into the wide eyes of his staff officers. “Listen to me! We’re being complacent, patting ourselves on the back for success before we’ve even started.” He watched to make sure his words had the desired impact. “We don’t wait for things to happen. We seize initiative. And we don’t leave security to chance.”
He glared around the room. “Our enemies are gathering. We’d better find out who and where they are.” He moved from his chair, strode to the door, and stopped. “I want a report tomorrow that ties these details together. Executive Officer, take charge.” His eyes seemed to bore through the man. “And stop deliveries of that fish soup. Now!”
Late that night, Yermolov drove into the town at the foot of the hill. He went alone, something unusual for him; the security risk was high.
He stopped in the tavern. As he entered, he remembered the CIA officer he had seen there a month ago, and wondered idly if the man had managed to get his report through.
The retired nuclear physicist with whom he shared a striking resemblance waited for him in the same booth they had sat in that night. Yermolov recalled that some members had remarked that the two had a common grandfather: Rasputin.
“Well,” Yermolov had told him, “we share many reasons to ensure the success of our cause.” The old man had nodded his agreement.
Now, Yermolov and his alleged distant cousin spoke in hushed tones, and as they parted, the man handed him the briefcase he had prepared so carefully.
“It’s simple to arm, but be careful of the fail-safe,” he told Yermolov. “The instructions and the remote control are included.”
“Are you sure no one outside the group knows about this?” Yermolov asked. The old man nodded.
On returning to his cabin, Yermolov inspected the contents, drawing his hand across the rough etching on the inner metal sheet that covered the bomb. Then he examined the control panel and studied the printed instructions that accompanied it. Satisfied, he closed the briefcase, and secured it inside a wall locker.
Chapter 16
The morning after their arrival, Rafael looked at Ivan stretched across the safe house bed, sound asleep. “What do we do with him?”
“I don’t know yet,” Atcho replied. “I haven’t thought it all the way through. He needs to get me in and out of the Soviet Union. Keep him drugged a while longer. I have to be out for a few hours.”
“What will you tell him when he wakes up?”
“The truth. We worked together last year. He said he hoped we could do it again.” Atcho grimaced. “And here we are.”
“What if he doesn’t cooperate?”
“We’ve got options. We could turn him loose, but he won’t like the idea of reappearing to the Soviets after what looks like faking his own death. It looks like he tried to defect. We might be able to use that as leverage. Or we could let the US Embassy sort it out. I don’t have time for complexity.”
Rafael scrutinized him. “Are you all right, Atcho? You look like you’re losing sleep.”
Atcho rubbed his eyes. He had wondered several times during the night about the news that Burly’s courier would bring. “Just figuring out how to pull this off.” He looked at his watch wearily. “I’d better get going. I’ll get back as fast as I can.”
Forty-five minutes later, he sat in his car observing the house. At the regular time, he saw the young couple carry the steaming pot out to their car. Just then, the blue sedan he had seen the day before pulled up to the driveway. A man alighted from the passenger side and approached the couple. They seemed to know him, and even displayed deference.
The man spoke with them a short while, and then started back to his vehicle. The couple went to their trunk and removed the steaming pot. Even at this distance, Atcho caught a whiff of malodorous fish soup.
An elderly woman entered through the pedestrian gate. She was stooped, and she pulled her coat tightly about her against the cold. Across one shoulder she slung a book bag.
She seemed to ask for directions. The couple pointed this way and that, and the woman glanced about in concert with their gestures. At one point, the young man pointed in Atcho’s direction, and the old woman looked directly at his car.
Atcho thought she stared at him, but discarded the notion. He doubted she could see inside the car from the driveway. He had parked in shadows with the sun reflecting off the windshield.
The man walking toward the blue sedan turned once to wave at the young couple, but they were absorbed in conversation with the elderly woman. He got into the sedan, and it pulled away.
Atcho waited a few seconds, then followed. As he passed in front of the house, the elderly lady stared as if trying to see inside the car. He had no time to discern that she was Sofia, in disguise. He drove on down the street after the blue sedan.
The sidewalks were empty, but ahead was an intersection that joined the commercial area with the neighborhood. Crowds moved in the crosswalk. When there was a break, the blue sedan turned right.
Following behind two hundred feet, Atcho eased up to the intersection and waited while pedestrians cleared the crosswalk. To his left, he saw a man turn the corner to enter the residential street in the direction Atcho had just come.
The man had an easy gait, but seemed rushed. He wore a dark fedora and pulled a trench coat tightly around him. His collar was up, so Atcho could not see his face.
Atcho glanced back at the intersection. Pedestrians were still in the crosswalk. He scanned back to his left.
The man in the trench coat arrested his attention. He had halted on the corner, and stared at Atcho. He started toward the car.
Atcho took in the man’s build. He recognized the horn-rimmed glasses and rounded chin protruding over the collar. He sucked in his breath, checked the intersection again, and drove behind the remaining pedestrians. Then he slid over one lane to put other cars between him and the man on the corner.
That man was Collins.
Atcho hung back in traffic as he followed the blue sedan. His mind whirled with the events of the past few days. He dismissed thoughts of Collins to concentrate on more immediate concerns. He had no clear plan for how to use Ivan. For that matter, he had not even ascertained if Ivan could get him into the Soviet Union and back out.
Ivan had been the senior KGB officer working with Atcho in pursuit of Yermolov last year. He was quick and agile, and he commanded authority. While pursuing the rogue general, he had directed subordinates to seize a private jet on quick order, and he had posted KGB subordinates at bus terminals, train stations and airports around DC to prevent Yermolov from escaping. But does that mean he knows how to get me safely across the border and back?
In the blue sedan, Colonel Dmitri Drygin had his driver check the mirror for the car that had appeared to follow them. It was not in sight.
Drygin was in his mid-thirties, shorter than average, but with a powerful physique, blond medium-length hair, and cold blue eyes over an elegant smirk. He held the tenuous position of executive officer to General Yermolov. He knew that bringing unwanted attention to their group and headquarters could end his livelihood abruptly, maybe fatally.
Drygin had gone personally to stop the fish
soup delivery. It had been provided by their landlord, Aleksey, the only one of Rasputin’s servants still alive. Drygin had contacted him while Yermolov was still in Cuba, and had nurtured good relations that he did not want disrupted. They had been too valuable.
“Yermolov is a direct descendant of the mystic,” he had told Aleksey. He said they would provide proof.
Now as he rode back to headquarters, he recalled Yermolov’s order regarding the CIA officer in the tavern last month: “Remove him.”
Drygin had been reluctant to kill the officer. The two had developed an odd mutual respect as competent professional peers. But the hit was necessary. The man had recognized Yermolov and would sound alarm. Failure to carry out the execution would have invited Drygin’s own termination. One shot through the temple had done the job.
Drygin reflected on a twisting career with the KGB. He recalled his unnerving days as deep-cover liaison between Yermolov in the role of General Clary and the renegade KGB faction during the assassination attempt. All his skill had been tested to bring the general out of Cuba and establish relations with Rasputin followers in Paris. That action was necessary because the group provided untraceable funds and a haven for Yermolov during planning and while gathering forces. Drygin had accomplished those things without drawing suspicion from Gorbachev’s regime.
“Sir.” His driver interrupted his thoughts. “That car you told me to watch caught up and moved behind us a few vehicles back.”
Drygin glanced through the rear window. “Keep at traffic speed and make a few unnecessary turns. We’ll see if it’s coincidence.”
He had not been concerned that the car was tailing him. However, he had noticed that the elderly woman who showed up at Aleksey’s house had stared at it, and that it fell in behind them as soon as Drygin’s vehicle pulled away.
Three cars behind, Atcho’s thoughts turned to Sofia. The last time he had spoken with Burly, her whereabouts were still unknown. His admiration rose grudgingly. He was still angry, but he worried that no one was at her back.
The blue sedan took a right. He pursued. The street sloped down, exposing a country vista in the distance. A two-lane road cut across from the left. Atcho recognized the turnoff where he had seen the blue sedan leave the main road and drive into a forest yesterday. If it were going there, he could see it from this observation point.
The sedan entered an intersection and turned left. Atcho followed. It made another left. When it came to the main road again, it turned right. They’ve seen me.
Instead of pursuing, Atcho returned to the observation point. Minutes later, he saw the sedan drive along the two-lane road to the turnoff. It stopped. A few minutes passed, then it turned onto the gravel road and drove uphill into the forest.
Chapter 17
A short while later at Yermolov’s headquarters, his staff assembled for the daily briefing. Before it started, the general turned to Drygin. “Will we be receiving any more of that fish soup?”
“No. I took care of that. Our benefactors are happy to cooperate.”
“Good. Anything new on Major Ivan Chekov?”
“No. The situation is the same as yesterday. His remains are burned beyond recognition. The teeth are gone. His personal effects were with the car: his ring, his watch, his wallet and identification. There was nothing to positively identify him. The State Department is facilitating moving the remains to Moscow.”
“His teeth are gone,” Yermolov said, his voice thick with sarcasm. He started talking through his fingers as though thinking out loud. “Things are not adding up. I spoke with Chekov shortly before he disappeared. He wouldn’t defy me.”
He turned to Drygin. “Can we put surveillance on his wife and son? I want to know about anyone they talk to, the nature of phone calls, where they go, et cetera. And don’t lose them.”
“We can use KGB assets in their hometown,” Drygin replied. “I’ll take care of it.”
Yermolov acknowledged with no emotion. He continued his reflection. “Any sign that either government is trying to find me?” He addressed his question to the intelligence officer.
“None,” the man replied, “but there is an interesting search going on through the FBI. A State Department employee vanished, and she was reportedly a covert officer of the CIA.”
“Interesting. Any reason to believe she’s connected with us?”
“Just one, but it might be significant. She is the fiancée of the man you call Atcho.”
“Atcho’s fiancée?” Yermolov leaned forward, startled. “I met her once at my house in Washington. We had a barbecue. She came with Atcho.” He reflected momentarily. “Sofia Stahl. Beautiful woman. CIA? I didn’t know. When did she disappear?”
Yermolov’s men regarded him in awe. “As well as we can piece things together,” the intelligence officer said, “Atcho visited her one night last week. He left for the airport the next morning, and flew to Austin, Texas. Shortly after that she left her apartment and has not been seen since.” He gave the full rundown of what they had learned. “We can’t confirm the information.”
Yermolov tucked the report into his mind. “What about Atcho? He must be concerned.”
“He has not returned to DC since he flew to Austin. We don’t know where he is now. We tried to track him in Austin, but found no sign of him.”
Yermolov’s eyes flashed. “So, he’s missing too?”
No one spoke.
Yermolov’s face grew angry. “Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. Just one. I don’t know the significance, but we received word that the reporter, Collins, flew to Paris yesterday. We don’t have him under surveillance, and we don’t know what story he’s on.”
“Find out,” Yermolov snapped. “When are we moving to Novosibirsk?”
“On your order, General,” Drygin cut in, interrupting the operations officer. He regarded Yermolov with cool detachment. “Our operators in Novosibirsk contacted the Rasputin followers. They’re prepared to support.
“Section V of the KGB will secure our transportation. In addition, the KGB’s commander of Border Troops, Lieutenant-General Fierko, will be at your immediate disposal when we arrive, but formal command must continue with him until you are in control.”
“Excellent!” Yermolov exclaimed. His annoyance subsided.
“One more thing,” Drygin continued. “When we are there, the KGB will pave the way into the nuclear control apparatus.”
With an image of the locked-up briefcase in his mind, Yermolov nodded in satisfaction. He also took note of Drygin’s steady demeanor, and recalled Drygin’s actions during the lead-up to the assassination attempt, and then bringing Yermolov out of Cuba. His competence is remarkable, maybe even that of an eventual rival.
He was gratified to hear of Section V’s participation, the part of the KGB responsible for assassinations. Its director would not commit to an effort so far outside his charter unless he was serious.
The logistics officer stood to give his report. He briefed that a small Soviet cargo plane would meet them at a private airstrip and fly them east to a Soviet air base in Romania. A cargo jet with regularly scheduled flights would then fly them into Novosibirsk.
“Good,” Yermolov responded. “Personnel?”
“Going well, sir. We’ve been able to reach your former colleagues from your operation last year.”
“You mean my co-conspirators in the assassination attempt,” Yermolov retorted. “Go on.”
The personnel officer shifted his feet. “Several are still in prison, but their guards are sympathetic. The units that had cooperated in the operation are still intact. Once you are in control, getting release of their former commanders will be easy. Those units should be immediately reliable.”
“Do we know which units they are?”
Drygin spoke up again. “They’re all KGB. They oversee the army units rigorously. We should realize minimum bloodshed, possibly only among senior officers who resist.”
Yermolov contemplated
that. “How will this look to the populace?”
“Transparent,” Drygin replied. “Gorbachev came out of obscurity, so the public is already conditioned to accept an unknown leader.
“When the Soviet people comprehend your entire background, a propaganda blitz will solidify your position. We’ll stage a ceremony where Gorbachev resigns in your favor.”
“Good plan.” Yermolov appeared mollified from his previous irritation. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though. We need to step through each phase deliberately.” He looked around the room. “Anything else?”
The staff was silent. Drygin gestured that he had more to say. Once again, Yermolov took note of his steady eyes.
“We don’t want to be afraid of shadows,” Drygin said, “but we’re in the intelligence business. Piecing details together is what we do.”
Something in Drygin’s manner caused Yermolov’s stomach to take an anxious jolt. “What is it?”
“I spoke with Aleksey’s son and daughter-in-law, Marcel and Francine,” Drygin began. “As I was leaving, an elderly woman walked up.” He explained the interactions. “While they were talking, she spotted a car parked down the street and showed keen interest in it. She continued talking, but as we drove away, the car followed us.”
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.