[Cold War 02.0] Rasputin's Legacy

by Lee Jackson

  She approached them. “Would you help me?” she asked in English. “I’m studying the history of the Orthodox Church in Russia and the Soviet Union. Where can I get information?”

  The minders looked at each other with some confusion. “Do you understand?” Sofia asked. They nodded, but she saw reluctance in their eyes, and thought she understood the reasons.

  A year ago, she might have been arrested for asking the same questions. The minders could have found themselves in trouble for giving assistance. With Gorbachev’s glasnost policies, magnificent cathedrals were to be returned to their parishes across Russia. New rules for what interactions were allowed had not been promulgated. The minders seemed unsure of what to do. They conferred privately, and one pointed at the tour guide.

  “I should speak with him?” Sofia asked. “It’s okay?”

  The man nodded. “Anyway, I’ll ask him what you talked about,” he replied in heavily Russian-accented English. They exchanged wry grins, and Sofia went to speak with the guide.

  “That man said I could ask you a question about Church history,” she said. She pointed at the minder. The guide looked cautiously at the man, who nodded and shrugged as if to say, “Why not?”

  “What do you want to ask me?” the guide spoke in lightly accented English.

  “I won’t get you in trouble,” she assured him. “Is there a Russian Orthodox cathedral close by that was already returned to its parish? I’d like to speak with anyone who lived through the history of state control.”

  The guide was young, maybe a graduate student. He wrapped his hand around his narrow chin and rubbed the stubble while he thought. “There are several Church sites close by, but they’ve been destroyed or fallen into ruin. Mr. Gorbachev has not yet returned them to Church ownership. What would you like to know?”

  “I’m researching the interrelated histories of the Russian Orthodox and the Catholic Churches,” Sofia said. “I’m interested in the time span when the Church couldn’t operate.”

  “Are you looking for specific information?” He studied her.

  “I’d like to speak with old members of the Church. People who remember as close to the beginning of the revolution as possible.” She hesitated, and then plunged. “I need to find Rasputin followers.”

  The guide glared at her. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “You make fun.”

  “No. This is serious.” She struggled to maintain a pleasant demeanor for the sake of appearances, and saw that he did the same. “Does the name Aleksey in Paris mean anything to you?”

  Startled, he drew back. “Should it?”

  “He made the fish soup for the mystic.” Sofia saw that the point registered. “I visited him two days ago.”

  “How long will you be staying in Moscow?”

  “As long as I need to. I’m at the Metropol.”

  “I’ll have someone contact you. Be at dinner in the restaurant this evening.” The guide shot a furtive glance at the minders. “We need to end this. Point at something and ask me about it.”

  Sofia did, and the guide engaged others in the discussion. Soon she was in the middle of the group, just another tourist.

  Burly could not believe his ears. “You’re calling from Moscow?” He spoke on a secure line from his office in the basement of the White House.

  The voice on the other end of the line sounded irritated. “Yes. My name is Zane McFadden. I’m the CIA Station Chief. I’m calling because of your high-priority message to embassies.”

  “You saw Sofia Stahl?” Burly massaged the back of his neck.

  “As I said, she’s on our surveillance tapes. She came in yesterday morning.”

  “You’re sure it’s her?”

  “I’m sure,” McFadden replied. “We double-checked.”

  “Do you know where she is? I’d like to speak with her.”

  “No. She came and left without signing in. We checked with all our offices. She’s not here.”

  “All right. We’ve got to find her. Let me fill you in.”

  “You just landed a whopper in my lap,” McFadden said when Burly had finished. His tension was unmistakable. “I’ll get my guys out searching immediately. Do you know what she intended to do?”

  “No.”

  McFadden sensed the distress in Burly’s voice. “All right. I’ll keep you posted. Out.”

  At seven o’clock that evening, Sofia ordered dinner in the restaurant at the Metropol. Two new minders sat across the lobby. The minor chords of Russian classical music floated through the air, played by a group of string musicians. The mix of sweet and mournful melody that played in counterpoint to Russian harmony evoked a visceral sense of the ageless Russian struggle, and reflected her mood: melancholy.

  Thoughts of Atcho lingered. She remembered the first time she had seen him: gaunt, undernourished, and unkempt. But, even as a just-released political prisoner in Havana, he had carried himself with grace and dignity. His eyes had shown an indomitable spirit, yet unspeakable sorrow.

  Sofia felt her throat constrict and her eyes moisten. She straightened in her seat to regain poise. The waiter brought her meal and set it in front of her, carefully moving the bowl to reveal writing beneath it on a napkin. Sofia read it: “Go to the restroom.” Her heart raced.

  Keeping her composure, she finished her dinner and left for the ladies’ room. As she crossed the restaurant, she noticed a man observing her with the detached alertness that she had come to recognize among operators in the intelligence community. He reminded her of a scaled-down version of Burly, and he looked directly at her. “Sofia?”

  She smiled down at him. “Yes.” She replied in her most friendly manner. “Do I know you?”

  The man smiled, and stood. “My name is McFadden. I work at the emba—”

  “I was just going to the restroom,” Sofia interrupted with a despairing expression, “and I really don’t want to embarrass either of us. I’ll be right back, and if you’d like, you can join me at that table right over there.” She pointed with a cutesy flick of her wrist.

  Chapter 35

  Sofia’s heart pounded as she hurried out of the restaurant. She feared McFadden might stop her or follow her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him sit down, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  She found the women’s room down a poorly lighted corridor. As she entered, she heard a hiss behind her. The face of the guide from St. Basil’s appeared in a doorway across the hall.

  “This way,” he whispered. He led through deserted passages past loading bays at the back of the hotel. A car and driver waited there.

  “Get in,” the guide said, opening the rear door.

  Startled, Sofia pulled back. “No way. Who are you?”

  The guide looked disconcerted. “You asked for help,” he hissed. “This is dangerous for us too.” He scanned the darkness. “We can’t stay here. Your minders will be looking for you.”

  “I don’t know anything about you.”

  “You knew that when you approached me at St. Basil’s.” He looked disgusted. “And when you read my note and followed me out here.” He looked around again. “I am Marat. I made a call to Paris today and spoke with Aleksey. He confirmed that a lady came to his house two days ago asking about Rasputin.” He peered at her through ambient light. “I want to know why you’re here. I don’t believe you’re researching Rasputin or the Church. The risks you take are too high for that.”

  Sofia started to respond.

  “We can’t talk here,” Marat interrupted. “It’s too dangerous. Either come with me or go back inside, but do it now.”

  Sofia took a deep breath. “Let’s go.” She climbed into the backseat. Every security procedure I know just went out the window.

  Marat got in, his driver gunned the engine and the car moved off. As it joined general traffic, Marat turned in his seat. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Sofia summarized what she knew of Yermolov; what she had learned about Rasputin; her journey to Paris and what occurred
there; and her conclusions. She deliberately omitted any mention of the nuclear device. That might be a bit more than they can handle right now.

  Marat listened intently. When Sofia finished, he asked, “Do you think Yermolov’s ancestry claims are genuine?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, “what matters is if Rasputin’s followers believe him, and help him.”

  “What do you think Yermolov will do?”

  She told him, again not revealing the bomb concern. When she had finished, Marat scoffed. “You think he can stage a coup?”

  “He spied in the US for nearly thirty years,” Sofia retorted. “He reached the most senior levels of US nuclear defenses. He almost succeeded in assassinating your general secretary in the US. And, he escaped from Cuba. What do you think he’s capable of?”

  Marat raised his eyebrows, and then was quiet while the driver maneuvered through nighttime winter traffic. “So,” he said finally. “What do you want us to do?”

  The driver spoke. “Never mind, Marat.” He startled Sofia. He was white haired, and Sofia realized quickly that Marat deferred to him. “My name doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “You are very brave.”

  In the dim light, Sofia could make out only the outline of his profile. His voice was kind. He seemed to try several times to turn to see her, but was constrained by a peculiar bend of his neck.

  “Do you know that many Russians would welcome the Romanovs back to the throne?” It was a rhetorical question. The old man did not wait for a response “We’ve seen nothing but more dictatorship and bigger bombs for the past seven decades. Our people might look to Yermolov for deliverance.”

  He tried again to turn to see Sofia, but gave up the effort. “You are right that Novosibirsk is Rasputin’s birthplace, and the group that believes in his legend is quite large there.” He paused in thought. “It’s also the birthplace of Saint Alexander Nevsky. He is the antithesis of Rasputin and a much-loved figure among Orthodox believers, including those that revere Rasputin.”

  He sat in quiet reflection, and tried one more time to see Sofia. “We know what we have to do.” His voice was resolute. “You can’t go back to the Metropol. You’ve been out of sight too long. The KGB would take you into custody immediately.”

  Sofia stared into the dark. “Tell me how I can help. Then take me to the US Embassy.”

  “That’s easier said than done,” Marat interjected. “The KGB will be looking for you there.”

  McFadden glanced across the lobby at Sofia’s minders. They fidgeted. Ten minutes had passed since she had gone to the restroom. He went to find her. Thirty minutes later, he called Burly from the embassy. “She gave me the slip,” he grumbled. He related what had happened at the Metropol.

  “She’s done it to the best of us,” Burly groused.

  “I went all the way to the loading docks at the back of the hotel,” McFadden told him. “She had to have gone out that way. Which tells me, she had help.”

  The next morning, Sofia melded into the crush of Moscow’s rush-hour pedestrians heading to their destinations. Her heart beat faster as the consular entrance of the US Embassy came into view. Already, a line of people seeking entry had grown.

  Last night, Marat and the kindly old man provided shelter. This morning they dropped her off near the embassy to immerse herself among people doing routine business with the embassy’s consular services. Dressed in a heavy coat, fur hat, and knee-high boots that Marat provided, she looked like any woman bracing Moscow’s icy cold.

  Chiefly on her mind was how to get by the Soviet guards. She looked ahead and saw that two of them stood on either side of the line about fifty feet in front of the embassy entrance. She sucked in her breath. They were checking identification documents.

  To one side about one hundred feet away was a dark sedan with two civilian men. They watched the crowd. She glanced along the line of people behind her. None were leaving. She moved to the inside of the queue and stood at an angle to appear as though she were with a group of people.

  The plainclothesmen by the car scrutinized the crowd, but had not taken note of her. The line proceeded. The guards studied the faces and papers of each person.

  Sooner than she could have imagined, Sofia was one person behind the head of the line. She reached along the front of her coat and unbuttoned it, and stole another furtive glance at the plainclothesmen. One seemed to concentrate on her. She turned slightly as if looking inside her coat and slipped one arm out of its sleeve, but kept the coat over her shoulders.

  She glanced again at the two plainclothesmen by the car. One of them pointed at her.

  Now! Sofia shoved the person in front of her against the nearest soldier. Both staggered, and became entangled as they tried to regain balance. Yanking the coat from her other arm, Sofia threw it over the second guard and jammed a knee into his stomach. He clutched the air and crumpled to the ground.

  To her left Sofia heard a startled cry. From the corner of her eye she saw the two plainclothesmen running toward her.

  The first guard recovered his footing. He lunged at Sofia. She spun out of reach and swung around, kicked a foot high in the air, and brought it down on the back of his neck. He fell to the ground.

  Hurried footsteps drew close. Without looking back, Sofia took off in a dead run toward the entrance to the embassy. Ahead of her, American Marines, alerted to the commotion, drew their weapons.

  “I’m an American,” Sofia yelled. “I’m an American.” She threw her hands high in the air and continued her headlong sprint.

  A strong hand grabbed her shoulder from behind. She dodged, and stooped as she slowed her forward momentum. When her pursuer lunged past, she shoved her right foot down on the backside of his left knee and drove it into the ground. The man cried out in pain, rolled over, and grabbed his injured leg.

  The second man was older, heavier, and slower than the first. He slowed to a trot when he saw his companion go down, and closed the distance cautiously.

  Sofia spun on her heels, and sprinted the few remaining yards into the entrance. As soon as she cleared the threshold, she threw herself on the ground, spread-eagled. “I’m an American!” she shouted. “My passport is in my back pocket!”

  While one Marine stood over her with his Beretta pointed at her head, another extracted her passport and examined it briefly.

  “It’s her.” He helped Sofia to her feet. As she stood, she saw a third Marine pick up the receiver on a wall phone. He spoke in muffled tones. Moments later, McFadden tramped in front of her, hands on hips, his face angry.

  “We met last night,” he said unceremoniously. “Follow me.” He led through a maze of halls, past a reinforced security door, and into his office. He pointed to a phone on a massive desk with the receiver off the hook.

  “That’s for you.” He sat down and directed a steady gaze at her. “My orders are not to let you out of my sight, and to hold you by force if necessary.”

  “You and whose army?” She picked up the phone. “Sofia Stahl.”

  For a few seconds, she heard only breathing on the other end of the line, and then Burly’s voice. “I’m glad you’re safe.” He spoke slowly and steadily, but his anger came through. “You’re under arrest. Do you understand?”

  “I knew what to expect when I came here. Are you ready to listen?”

  Burly was quiet a moment. “Go ahead.”

  “Was that tip about Novosibirsk good?”

  “I don’t know. You missed Atcho in Paris. He saw you in front of that Rasputin house, but didn’t know it was you. He flew out of Moscow to Novosibirsk yesterday.”

  For a second, Sofia felt a hollow sense of lost opportunity. Atcho had been so close, twice. “Is he alone?”

  “Rafael and Ivan are with him. Rafael is the guy—”

  “I know who they both are,” Sofia interrupted. “Listen carefully. Last night I met the head of the Russian Orthodox Church in Moscow. He’s a honcho.”

  “So?”

  “
He can contact the head of the church in Novosibirsk.” She filled Burly in. “The congregation there is active and effective. The patriarch will use his influence to stop any help that Yermolov could get from the Rasputin sect.”

  “Okay, got all that. You stay put in Moscow until this is over. You’ve done enough. McFadden has strict instructions in your regard.”

  Sofia scoffed and eyed McFadden. “Like that’ll have any effect.” She sighed. “OK. I’ll be good. I don’t want to put Atcho in greater danger.” Her voice broke as pent-up emotion and the strain of days suddenly released. “Can you tell me more about the situation with the NukeX?”

  “No. We’re still working it.” He heard Sofia sniff. “We’ll get Atcho back,” he said gruffly. “Hang tough.”

  When they hung up, Burly whirled on his staff. “What’s the latest on that briefcase nuke?” he demanded.

  “It’s been delivered. That’s all we have.”

  “And the NukeX?”

  “They’ve been working through a technical glitch, but expect to have it fixed within hours. It should be ready to ship to Moscow by tomorrow.”

  “OK. Make sure McFadden knows all that stuff.”

  Chapter 36

  A day earlier, as Atcho’s trio flew from Paris to Moscow, Atcho felt plagued by several issues. Flying into Cold War enemy territory was no small matter. This war was fought in shadows on clandestine battlefields, but the casualties were just as dead.

  He reflected on his comrades next to him, and on Burly and Sofia. He had been terse with Burly, doubted Sofia, dragged Rafael into enemy heartland, and manipulated Ivan. Self-doubt gripped him. With nightmares of the past replaying on his mind in concert with those thoughts, he fell into restless sleep, and stayed that way for most of the trip to Moscow. He did not see Collins, seated ten rows behind, nor as the reporter exited the airplane for his unexpected rendezvous with Mr. Gorbachev.