by Lee Jackson
“Right after Atcho’s escape, the APB went out for him on real estate fraud charges and was recalled after he called in the information about the body and the rifle. An hour after that, the entire Eastern seaboard went on military alert.”
“Why? What happened? How did that get by us?”
“Don’t know. The agents we spoke with were on the detail to protect the general secretary. They’re not the ones usually close to the president. Those guys won’t talk about it, and the military is closemouthed. There’s one more thing. Remember the Cuban MiG that flew into Andrews Air Force Base under escort late that night? A helicopter took a lone passenger from the MiG to the White House.”
“And that passenger was Atcho,” Collins muttered. “I remember that, but how did Atcho go from punching out a Secret Service agent on Pennsylvania Avenue to being on an inbound MiG a few hours later? Where would he have gotten onto it?”
“Well there is one more detail that might fit. It seemed obscure, but might be relevant. That same night, a private jet was stolen from a local DC airport.”
Collins considered the coincidence, but dismissed the thought. “That feels like grasping at straws. Do you know if Atcho is a pilot? A jet pilot?”
“No.” Both men were momentarily quiet.
“Then what do you make of all that?”
“I’m not sure,” Jakes replied. “Instead of trying to kill the Soviet general secretary, it sounds like Atcho might have disrupted an attempt on his life.”
“That fits.” Collins rested his forehead in his free hand. “That would explain why both Reagan and Gorbachev like him. But what kind of mission would they send him on now?”
“The easy answer is that he’d go after whoever was behind the conspiracy. They’re not buying a lone wolf theory.”
“Yep. Too much coordination. Had to be an inside Soviet job.” An inconsistency tugged at Collins’ mind. “If they didn’t catch the assassin last year, why haven’t they been looking for him all year? Have you heard anything about a widespread manhunt, even on the clandestine side?”
“No,” Jakes replied. “Here’s something else. I’m not sure how it ties in. Do you remember Lieutenant-General Clary?”
“Paul Clary. I met him a few times. Nice guy. He worked on the arms reduction talks.”
“That’s him. We tried to call him for an interview. He had met Atcho in Cuba right after Castro took over. Anyway, he’s disappeared, too.”
“How does a general disappear?”
“Good question. The Pentagon isn’t saying a word about it. More pertinent is when he disappeared.” He inhaled sharply. “Are you ready for this? On the morning of Gorbachev’s visit to DC, Clary went to work and was never seen again.”
“What? How could that happen? What about his family?”
“Gone. The house is vacant. It has a ‘For Sale’ sign, but the listing traces to a nonentity brokerage. Try to find out about buying that place, and you’ll get a runaround. We tried.”
Collins felt growing frustration. “Let’s get back to the present. We think that Atcho disrupted an assassination plot. Because of that, he gained Reagan’s and Gorbachev’s confidence. Now they have him chasing after the wannabe killer?”
“It seems to fit.”
“All right. My head is pounding. Let me wrestle with this stuff a while. Meanwhile, let’s stir the pot.”
Jakes laughed out loud. “I love when we do that! What do you have in mind?”
“Call the Pentagon. Tell them we want to interview General Clary about his contributions to the arms-reduction process.
“Call the White House with the same message. Tell them that with the first free Soviet elections coming up, we intend to do a series on the history of the Soviet Union, beginning with the fall of the tsars. To develop public interest, we’re going to consider the life and times of Rasputin and explore how things might have been different if he had never existed. Let’s see what reaction we get.”
“Are you expecting a reaction?”
“No, but there has to be a reason why Reagan and Gorbachev met with Atcho, and why he suddenly took an interest in Rasputin.”
“What about Clary?”
“A shot in the dark, but he knew Atcho from way back, and his disappearance on that day is too much coincidence. If there’s nothing there, it’ll all go away and I can come home. By the way, did you find anything new on that retired CIA guy?”
“No. He answers his phone but hangs up when I identify myself. He must have it forwarded, because when we go by his house, he’s not there. We’ll stay on it. What are you going to do?”
Collins peered at his image in a mirror across the room. The reflection peering back was that of a haggard man, almost a stranger. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Call me when you have something.”
Several hours later, the ringing phone registered distantly on Collins’ sleeping mind. Using most of the vocabulary he repressed back when society had been civil, he picked up the receiver.
“It’s me. Jakes. I’ve been calling for the past twenty minutes.”
Collins rubbed his eyes with his free hand, and grumbled something about having been in deep sleep. A sudden thought entered his mind. “Are my travel credentials to Moscow still good?”
“Moscow? We keep them updated for breaking stories. What do you want to do?”
“Maybe I could nose around up there, see what turns up.”
“Think again. I did exactly what you told me to do. I called the White House and the Pentagon, and we got a reaction.”
Fully awake, Collins felt Jakes’ excitement. “What kind of reaction?”
“Wait! Let me fill you in on something else first. Atcho is a licensed pilot and certified for that jet that was stolen. Also, as soon as it cleared US airspace, it turned south.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.” Jakes could barely contain his exuberance. “That airplane had the range to fly all the way to Cuba. No one would say if it was tracked there or not. But I ran a timeline, and Atcho had plenty of opportunity after decking the secret service guy to fly down there, and come back on that MiG by the time it landed at Andrews.”
Collins’ mind reeled as he juggled the implications. “Your guess was good. Great work! If that was really Atcho on those flights, that would support the notion that he disrupted an assassination attempt. Any idea what he might have done in Cuba?”
“No. Chase the bad guy? That’s pure guess. After that, we’re at a dead end.”
Collins sighed. “All right. Stay on it. What’s the reaction to our stirring the pot?”
“You have an invitation to the Oval Office.”
“To see Reagan? We’re going to interview Ronald Reagan?”
“No. He wants to speak with you.”
“About what? We’re on a roll. This isn’t a good time to pull out. I need to find out what Atcho is doing here now.”
“Your Concorde ticket is waiting. You’ll meet the president tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. The invitation comes with teeth. If you don’t agree, the French will deport you. You’re already under surveillance. On arrival, you’ll be held in federal protective custody.”
Collins fought back a string of expletives. “All right. I’ll be on my way.”
Chapter 26
“Why didn’t you call me right away?” Atcho barely contained his exasperation. He had called Burly from another room so that Ivan would not overhear the conversation. Rafael would ensure that Ivan did not eavesdrop.
“To tell you what?” Burly retorted. “Keep in mind, buddy, I’m retired. I’m in this because the president thought you’d trust me more than anyone else, particularly on short notice.” Irritation tinged his tone. “I called as soon as I had something to tell, which is that we think Sofia is in Paris. She left a message for you.” He let that ride. “The truth is the president is wondering how things went to hell so fast. This was supposed to be a quiet project. Now Rafael and KGB-Ivan are there with you,
Tony Collins is breathing down your neck, and Sofia’s gone rogue.”
Atcho fought to control his temper. “You tell Mr. Reagan that if his security had done its job, Collins would never have seen me and we’d have had more time to put nice, neat plans in place. On top of that, if I’d known Sofia’s status, we could have told her the truth. Maybe she wouldn’t have gone off half-cocked.
“The fact is that Reagan hired an amateur who had to make fast decisions without support. If he wants me off the job, I’m done!”
Burly sighed. “I’ve already been over that with him. Let’s both calm down. I’ll tell you what I know.”
Despite being on the phone, Atcho nodded. Burly was a rare friend. He had gone to great lengths on Atcho’s behalf several times. “What’s Sofia’s message?”
“When she called last night, she wouldn’t say where she was, but she was definitely in France and on a secure line. A good guess is our embassy in Paris. Surveillance cameras there picked up someone that looked like her, and the sign-in log has a scrawl that looks like it could be hers. It looks like it was deliberately obscured. Anyway, she said to tell you that Yermolov is headed to Novosibirsk in Siberia.”
“To where? Why? What’s there?”
“Novosibirsk. It’s in the south of Siberia. A good-sized Russian Orthodox congregation lives there. Some of those people are probably Rasputin followers. Sofia probably doesn’t know, but Novosibirsk is a large military center. And, it’s the headquarters for the KGB Border Troops.”
“Good Lord! Yermolov will walk right into support by elements of the military and the KGB.”
“Exactly.”
They were both quiet. A question gnawed at Atcho. “How does Sofia know about Rasputin in all of this?”
Burly took in a deep breath. “Her intelligence instincts are well developed. She figured out Yermolov. As for Rasputin,” he groaned. “That was my fault, my friend. I pointed her in the direction of the Rasputin biography. I hoped she would go after it in a bookstore or a library around Virginia some place, and we could nab her. Sorry.”
Atcho had to grin at the irony. “Sounds like we both have a lot to learn about Sofia.”
“I ordered her home. She said she’d come in tonight, but I’m guessing she played me for time. I don’t expect her.”
“What do we do now?”
“Sofia said you need an ally in the field. I think she means she’s going to be out there helping you finish the mission.”
“Any idea where she got the information on Novosibirsk?”
“Maybe. We’re sending someone from the embassy to the Rasputin house to ask if anyone fitting her description has been there. Next time we speak—”
While Burly talked, Atcho’s mind flashed to the scene at the Rasputin house the day before. “Crap!” he exclaimed. “I think I saw her at that house.” He described the scene. “She looked right at me.”
“It probably was her,” Burly grumbled. “When was that?”
“Around mid-afternoon, yesterday.”
“Great. Whatever she learned had to come from there. Man, she played me.” He chuckled. “You know, bud, if we get through this and you marry her, you’ll have one helluva tigress on your hands.”
“Let’s stick with the present. Where do you think she went?”
“No telling, but stay on mission. Let me worry about finding where Sofia is and what she’s up to.”
“Good luck with that. I’ll get Ivan to plan how we get to Novosibirsk. I need to be ready to move by tomorrow.” Another thought struck. “If we’re going to have a chance at a raid, it’ll have to happen soon. We’ll get back out to that hill as soon as we hang up. Anything more on your courier?”
“No.”
As he re-entered the room where Ivan and Rafael were, he reflected that Ivan had been remarkably docile after initial anger. Atcho had thought he might try to escape. On second thought, Ivan had no place to go. He could be biding his time.
“Have you decided what we’re going to do?” Ivan asked. His voice carried an edge.
“Yermolov might be at that place on the hill. We’re going to that observation point I found yesterday and try to get positive ID on him. Meanwhile, you need to plan how to get us into Novosibirsk.”
Rafael sat up, and Ivan spun around. “Novosibirsk? Why?”
“Can’t say right now.”
Ivan grimaced. “You want me to get you into Novosibirsk and back out, but you won’t tell me why?”
Atcho shrugged.
Ivan’s eyes narrowed. “How do you propose I do that? Who will I call? Most people don’t take calls from a dead man.”
Atcho eyed him. “Assume you’re still alive and want to help. How would you do it?”
Ivan drew back. He had expected an angry retort. “Novosibirsk?” He mulled. “Interesting place. A major center of military and KGB activity, but you probably knew that.”
Atcho nodded. “You probably have back-channels in place in case you ever had to run.”
Ivan smirked. “With as many informants as the KGB has inside the Soviet Union to keep tabs on the rest of us, if I ever had to run, it would be pure improvisation.”
“Then pretend you’re on the run and believed to be dead. Improvise. You want to stay alive, and you want to get home in one piece. How would you do that?”
Ivan thought over the question. “I’d have to keep a low profile,” he said slowly, “and bribe well-entrenched bureaucrats.”
“Another question. Would official word have gone to only necessary places about your death by now?” Ivan nodded bleakly. “Or, would every KGB office get the news?”
“I wasn’t that important. Most likely, Novosibirsk would not have been informed. So, what?”
“So, you could show up with credentials and throw your KGB weight around.”
“That might work, so long as the guy I’m trying to intimidate isn’t another KGB officer.”
“We’ll have to risk it. Think about it while we go out to the hill.”
“If I come up with a plan, will you let me make telephone calls?” Sarcasm laced Ivan’s tone. “If not, I’m dead weight.”
Atcho ignored the pun. “We’ll work it out. Let’s go.”
Ivan got up from the bed. Rafael rose from his seat and crossed to the closet. He reached inside his bag and took out two Glocks. He handed one to Atcho with extra magazines. “We might need these.”
Atcho looked at him, surprised. “How did you get those into France?”
Rafael shrugged. “Burly arranged it. One of the president’s national security adviser people worked things out through the French Embassy.” He handed Atcho a small card. “You’ll need this. That’s your carry permit.”
Ivan was shocked. Since regaining consciousness, he had regarded Atcho as a bumbler and Rafael as his sidekick. This is the guy who brought Yermolov down in the first place, he reminded himself. An escape attempt had just become much more dangerous.
The trio drove to the observation point. For an hour, they watched the hill without seeing activity. Then, the shadow of a car appeared at the crest. It cleared the trees and sped down the road through the field. It was the blue sedan. Behind it, another car followed, and then another and another. When they reached the turnoff, instead of turning right, which would have retraced the route of the day before, they turned left and went in the opposite direction.
“They’re on their way out!” Atcho roared. He started the car, raced through town at breakneck speed, barreled down the road that led to the turnoff, and then sped in the direction the cars had traveled. When he had gone a few miles without overtaking the other cars and finding no indication of which way they went, he did a quick U-turn, and speeded back to the turnoff. There, he floored the accelerator up the gravel road.
Next to him, Ivan yelled, “What are you doing?”
“Maybe we can catch stragglers,” Atcho shouted back.
When they reached the forest, he was forced to slow down by a bumpy road.
It curved inside the tree line, and ended in a clearing with a series of cabins. Atcho circled and stopped.
No one appeared. The three of them went from cabin to cabin. They had been recently occupied, evidenced by light trash strewn about, but were locked and empty.
“Missed them,” Atcho grumbled.
“What now?” Rafael asked.
“This shoots down the raid idea. We go back to the safe house and let Ivan get on the phone.”
They piled back into the car, and Atcho cranked the engine. Just as he set the gear, another car came to an abrupt halt in front of them amidst a swirl of dust. It sprang into rapid retreat.
Atcho floored the accelerator. His car leaped forward. The other car disappeared around the first bend, still in reverse. When Atcho reached the curve, it had almost turned around. Atcho crashed into its bumper, spinning it so that it straddled the road. His car came to a halt.
Suddenly, Ivan punched Atcho hard in the face. Continuing his motion, he grabbed Atcho’s pistol and pointed it at Rafael. He moved so fast that neither Atcho nor Rafael had a chance to react.
“Very slowly, toss your gun outside,” he told Rafael.
His face a mask, Rafael complied.
“I’m going with him,” Ivan said, indicating the other car.
Atcho did not speak. A mark along his cheek began to swell.
Ivan opened the door and stepped out. Keeping the Glock pointed at them, he moved to the second car and spoke to the driver in Russian, instructing him to straighten it out.
Just as the vehicle had completed the maneuver, Atcho floored his accelerator. His car crashed into the rear of the other one, spinning it again and striking Ivan.
Rafael bounded out the back door. The Russian driver gunned his engine, straightened his vehicle, and raced down the road through crunching gravel, and a cloud of dust.
When the air cleared, Atcho saw that Rafael sat on Ivan’s chest, his recovered pistol aimed at Ivan’s head. He looked back at Atcho and shook his head. “He’s not dead,” Rafael called. “The car knocked him over. I punched him out. Now what?”