by Lee Jackson
He sucked in his breath. The car had stopped in front of the Rasputin house.
He quickened his pace, careful to stay hidden. The passenger emerged and disappeared inside the gate. Before Collins could close the distance, the man came back to the car, got in, and sped off.
Collins raised his hands to his face and shook his head in frustration. I’m always a step behind.
Setting his jaw, he reached the garden gate, turned in, and pushed the doorbell. When the door opened, a young man stood in front of him. He was tall and thin, and seemed affable.
“Do you speak English?” Collins asked after the young man greeted him.
The man rolled his eyes, but responded courteously. “A little. Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I was looking for a colleague, a woman. I was supposed to meet her in this neighborhood, but I can’t locate her.” He gave Sofia’s disguised description.
“Ah yes, the writer. She wanted to know about Rasputin. You’re a colleague?”
She told them she’s writing about Rasputin. I can go with that. “I’m her editor.”
“She left here a few minutes ago,” Marcel said. “She was going to her hotel.”
Collins was crestfallen. “She forgot to give me the name of the hotel. Did she mention it?”
“She might have told my wife. Come in. My name is Marcel.”
“Thank you.”
Marcel closed the door and called out to his wife. Soon, a young woman appeared. “I am Francine,” she said in English. Her husband filled her in. “I’m so sorry you missed her. There was another man here a few minutes ago asking about her.”
Although startled, Collins maintained a steady composure. “Did she mention that she was expecting anyone?”
Francine looked at Marcel, who shook his head. “Maybe she wanted to interview him,” Francine said. “He claims to know a descendant of Rasputin.” She chatted on, but Collins noticed that Marcel stiffened as she provided more information. Behind them came sounds of shuffling footsteps. Then a very old man approached.
“Ah, Grandfather,” Francine called to him. “Here is someone else interested in Rasputin.” She turned to Collins. “My husband’s grandfather was Rasputin’s servant,” she said proudly.
Startled again, Collins found himself staring. Despite Francine’s enthusiasm, the old man seemed displeased. He regarded Collins through tired eyes. “I’ve talked about Rasputin too much today,” he rasped. “I’m going to bed.” He shuffled back down the hall.
Next to him, Marcel fidgeted, and moved closer to the front door. “Please, Mr. …?”
“Collins.” As soon as he responded, Collins regretted giving his real name. But who knows me over here—besides Atcho?
“Mr. Collins, you see that my grandfather is very tired. I’m sorry to be rude—” Marcel took his arm and exerted enough pressure to move him toward the door. “He has talked enough for one day.”
A few minutes later, the phone rang in Colonel Drygin’s room at the temporary headquarters compound. He picked up on the third ring. “Drygin.”
“This is Marcel, Aleksey’s grandson.”
“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.” They spoke in Russian.
“I know, but when you gave me this number tonight, you said to let you know if anyone else came asking about Rasputin.”
“And…?”
“Right after you left an American came by. He claimed to be the editor for the writer who was here. The odd thing was that he spoke no French, and she was fluent. I don’t even know if she speaks English. I assumed she was French.”
“What did he want?”
“He was looking for the woman, and he gave an accurate description. He said that he was supposed to meet her in this neighborhood, but that she had forgotten to give him the address. His name was Collins.”
“Collins?” Drygin’s tone sharpened. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. He didn’t say where he was going.”
After hanging up, Drygin walked down the hall to Yermolov’s room and reported his conversation. Yermolov’s words were few, and terse. “Get everyone packing. Now! We leave tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 21
As soon as Atcho saw the blue sedan disappear into the forest, he returned to the safe house. He arrived during the time that Aleksey described to Sofia the details of Rasputin’s murder.
Rafael guessed that Ivan was expert in weaponry and hand-to-hand combat. He was sure he could give Ivan a good fight, but the Russian was younger, and probably better trained. With that in mind, Rafael had bound him.
Ivan woke up shortly after Atcho’s return. Finding his arms and legs tied, his eyes flashed anger. He recognized Atcho.
“Help me get him up,” Atcho said. He crossed the room, put an arm behind Ivan’s back, and brought him to a sitting position. Rafael helped untie him, and supported him to a wingback chair.
“Where am I?” Ivan asked, his voice deep and raspy. “What am I doing here?” Despite several days’ growth of beard, he resembled a serious and lethal version of the comedian Bob Newhart, complete with balding head.
“We need your help,” Atcho replied.
Ivan smirked. “This is the way you ask for it?”
“Remember how your people coerced me all those years?” Atcho retorted. “Hear me out.”
Ivan nodded sardonically. “The things men do to each other. Go ahead.”
“You remember Govorov, also known as Yermolov?”
On hearing the name, blood drained from Ivan’s face.
“Are you all right?” Atcho came to his aid.
Ivan waved him away. “Drugs wearing off. Go on.”
Atcho summarized events. Recalling their joint mission to Cuba and his meeting with Reagan and Gorbachev, he finished by briefing plans to seek out the religious sect in Paris. He gestured toward Rafael. “We fought together at the Bay of Pigs. He organized security for my daughter, her husband and his extended family against Yermolov last year. They were scattered across the county, so it was no easy deal.”
Ivan regarded Rafael. “Impressive! Things could have been a lot messier.” He left the matter at that. “Continue.”
“I need you to get me across the Soviet border and back.”
Ivan looked startled. “That’s it? That’s all you want from me?”
Now Atcho was surprised. “There might be other ways you could help, but that’s why I brought you in.”
“Brought me in,” Ivan repeated, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Do you know that I have a family?”
Atcho looked bewildered. “What? No. I didn’t think—”
“Exactly, you didn’t think. The Soviet Union believes I’m dead. By now, my family has been informed. I had a career. Now, I have no family, no career, and you ask for my help.” His expression turned dark. “You took away my life so that I could get you across the border and back.”
Atcho stared. In his haste to dodge Collins, he had not considered the ramifications to the KGB officer. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a businessman, not a spy. Can you get me into the Soviet Union and back out?”
Ivan bristled in disbelief, and then settled into deep thought. “I don’t know.” He saw Atcho’s puzzled face. “I’m dead, remember? I can’t call in favors. If I do, alarms will go off all over the place. You should have approached me before you had me killed.”
“What would you have done? The CIA and KGB were supposed to be kept out. Tony Collins was at my heels.”
Ivan jerked his head up. “Tony Collins? The newspaperman? What’s he doing?”
Atcho filled him in, including his perception that he might suspect Atcho of either being a conspirator or part of a cover-up in last year’s assassination plan.
“The plot thickens,” Ivan observed gloomily.
“I’m sure when all this is done, Gorbachev will restore you,” Atcho replied.
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.” His sarcasm was thick. “What happens if we fail
? We’re three men with no organization. I’m effectively neutralized, and you didn’t trust me enough to ask.”
“I couldn’t,” Atcho retorted. “You’re a spy in our country.”
Ivan snorted his disgust. “You think I’m KGB because I like it?” He tossed his head. “Being ‘brilliant’ in the Soviet Union comes at a cost.”
Atcho eyed him. “For all I know you might support Yermolov.”
“Right!” Ivan retorted. He rose on wobbly legs and walked over to stare out the window. Paris? Really? But right there was the Arch of Triumph. A gray mist hung over the City of Lights. Temperatures had dropped.
Behind him, Rafael sprawled across one of the beds. Atcho sat in an armchair, his face showing strain. Ivan almost felt sorry for him.
Atcho watched Ivan. Coercing him past this point would be counterproductive. If he doesn’t cooperate I’ll let the CIA handle him.
Ivan left the window, stretched out on his bed, and closed his eyes. Visions of his family crossed his mind. His wife, Lara, was lovely. He smiled despite his dark mood. His job had allowed them to enjoy a lifestyle beyond that of most Soviets. The price was constant, unaccompanied travel to places around the planet, mostly to the US, doing things that made him less than proud.
He thought of his son, Kirill, fourteen years old and looking forward to the upcoming futbol season. He was the image of his father, although with a full head of hair, and he had the same natural intelligence. The two of them loved their time together, kicking a ball, hiking in the forests, playing chess… Will I get my life back?
Although he had felt Atcho’s immense strength during the skirmish in the town house, he was sure he could overpower both Atcho and Rafael. His training restrained him. They were capable fighters. If he failed to subdue them both, the results could be tragic.
Does Yermolov know I’m ‘dead’? Therein lay his dilemma. If he escaped, should he go to the KGB or to Yermolov? Neither alternative was good. In either case, he would fall under suspicion. Furthermore, if he escaped, he would be on his own with no ID, no money, no credit card, and no contacts. I am alone.
He saw Atcho studying him. “You screwed up my life.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“What if we don’t succeed? What then?”
Atcho held his angry stare. On the other bed, Rafael stirred. He rolled onto his left side, looking back and forth between them.
“We’d better not fail,” Atcho said.
“That’s your plan? We’d better not fail?” Ivan snorted. “What do you think; that if Yermolov takes power he’ll launch an attack? He’s not stupid. He knows US launch protocols would have changed because of his escape, but they’re still on a hair trigger. He’ll move to consolidate power and lower tensions with the US.”
Atcho’s gaze bore into Ivan. “So, you think that if Yermolov calls the nuclear shots in the Soviet Union, that would be a good thing?”
Warnings buzzed in Ivan’s head. Careful. He’s probing. “No,” he said slowly, “Yermolov’s a survivor. He won’t do something to get himself killed or invite an attack. He’ll want to consolidate and establish legitimacy. He’ll do that before making threats abroad.”
Both men were quiet. Rafael looked on without saying a word.
Ivan spoke again, and his voice contained a wistful quality. “Russia is still a proud country. We have military, cultural, and educational achievements to rival anywhere in the world.”
“Maybe, but you enslaved whole countries and called them the Soviet Union.”
“My point is that your Ronald Reagan created the conditions for Yermolov to emerge. He said that our people suffer most under communism, but he nearly bankrupted us with that arms race. He drove the price of oil down to kill our production and dry up our financial reserves. Things will be worse for us.”
“So, what is Yermolov going to do?” Atcho’s voice was sharp as he asked the question.
Only at the last moment did Ivan stop an impulse to look around quickly at him. He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe reverse diplomatic initiatives; eliminate glasnost and perestroika.”
Both men were quiet. Rafael rolled back onto his stomach and closed his eyes.
“Tell me something, Ivan,” Atcho said. “I’m curious.”
“What?” His mental warnings blared. He had an idea where the next line of questions was going, and he was right.
“What happened in Havana last year, after I flew out?”
Ivan steeled himself to continue a consistent demeanor. He shrugged. “Fidel Castro had already gone away in his Jeep by the time you got in that MiG.” He said that Yermolov had lain unconscious and bleeding. The Cuban soldiers thought he was dead, so they loaded him into the back of a pickup.
Ivan said he rode with the commander of the security detail, and they drove back to Cuban Army headquarters. When the soldiers went to unload Yermolov, he groaned.
“No one knew what to do,” Ivan said. “Keep him alive? Let him die? The commander ordered first aid and went to inform his higher-ups. Apparently, the message went all the way to Castro, because orders came back quickly to do everything to save him.”
Atcho took that in. “What did you do?”
“Me?” The buzz in Ivan’s head warned. He shrugged. “I reported to my superiors. My orders were to keep an eye on Yermolov until our comrades at the Soviet Embassy could get the situation under control. As soon as Yermolov could be safely moved, he was taken by ambulance to the embassy clinic.”
Atcho digested Ivan’s response. On the other bed, Rafael lay quiet. Atcho was sure he listened to every word. “So, you were there for several days with Yermolov.” He cast a steady gaze at Ivan.
Ivan held it. “Yes. At the time that I was relieved of my duties, he was in no shape to escape, and as you know, the embassy reported him dead.”
“How did he get away?”
Ivan shook his head and relaxed imperceptibly. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “You said that General Secretary Gorbachev contained word of Yermolov’s escape. News had not seeped to the field at the time of my death.” He grinned slightly and went on. “It’s been more than a year since we captured the bastard. Obviously, he had high-level help. What will you do now?”
Atcho continued to study Ivan. Then he shook off his thoughts. He filled Ivan in on the connection between the Rasputin followers in Paris and the men he had observed on the hill outside the city. He related what he had observed about the couple with the steaming pot, the blue sedan, and its apparent destination. “The young couple seems harmless, but I’m sure the men in the blue sedan figured out I was following them. We need to get on that hill. We’ll go there tomorrow.”
Ivan looked up sharply. “You said you needed me to get you across the Soviet borders.”
“I don’t know when that will be or where we should cross. Do you think you can do it?”
“A dead man’s options are limited.” Ivan was still visibly angry. “The Soviet border is thousands of miles long. But a trained KGB officer can get most things done. Is that all you need?”
“No. Staging a coup in the Soviet Union by an outsider is crazy. It’ll have to be done so quietly that most of the world will have no clue it’s happening.” Yermolov’s new government would have to establish legitimacy quickly. That would require incredible cooperation across the Soviet government, especially between military, intelligence, and police elements. “I don’t believe that Yermolov will attempt a coup until those assets are in place.”
While he spoke, Ivan’s face remained sphinxlike, impenetrable. “Are you sure a coup is in the plan?”
“Has to be. If he’s not doing it, someone else is, and he’s a player.” Atcho pointed out that Yermolov was a wanted man in the Soviet Union. He could not participate in Gorbachev’s government, so without a coup, there would be no reason for him to return there.
“He’s got to be thinking of blackmail against the Soviet government,” Atcho went on. “The most effect
ive way would be to threaten a tactical nuclear strike, probably against Moscow.”
Ivan looked askance. “You’re heading into fantasyland.”
“Maybe. Yermolov has no patience for political posturing. He’ll go for a quick sweep where he controls the trigger. That points to a tactical nuke.”
“So, what are you thinking?”
“We have to get close to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have to locate him,” Atcho replied. “We have to get inside his organization, and be ready to act when he makes his move.”
Chapter 22
Ivan tossed sleeplessly. His muscles still felt the effect of drugs, but his mind functioned in adrenaline-induced overdrive. What will Yermolov do to Lara and Kirill if he finds out I’ve been absent for days?
When Yermolov had been captured in Havana, Ivan had been left to clean up the international relations mess. His duty to watch over the general ended after Soviet officials moved him to their embassy’s clinic. On his last day, Ivan was alone with Yermolov. Tubes protruded from the general’s mouth, and his complexion was deathlike. The only indication that he lived was the slight rise and fall of his chest and the hiss of labored breathing.
Maintaining a cold countenance, Ivan looked at the general, remembering his maniacal laugh just before his violent arrest. This is the great Soviet general and master spy?
Yermolov stirred. His eyes moved, but they seemed unfocused. Then they rested on Ivan and scrutinized him. He gestured for Ivan to come to the side of the bed.
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.”