by Lee Jackson
“I’m pleased to hear you refer to ‘our cause,’” Yermolov interjected. He turned to Kutuzov. “You’re reluctant to end this problem.” His voice took on stern overtones. “I intend to interrogate him tomorrow morning, and then I’ll make a final determination. If you have a good reason to object, let’s hear it. Otherwise, he will cease being a threat by tomorrow afternoon.”
Kutuzov took a hard look at Yermolov. He chose his words carefully. “I don’t take life wantonly,” he said. “Today, many major military commanders joined with the KGB and the Politburo and selected you to lead us. We expect you to apply sound judgment.”
His green eyes bored into Yermolov as he continued. “You know far more than I do about the facts concerning this Atcho. I would be imprudent to substitute my judgment over yours. National security must be our top priority.”
Yermolov listened to each word. He flashed an ingratiating smile. I’ll be damned! The guy is a politician after all—and I’ve lured him into my corner.
“I’m curious.” Kutuzov returned his attention to Ivan. “How were you chosen to capture General Yermolov last year?”
Ivan took a deep breath. I knew this was coming. He shook his head. “Luck of the draw. It was my turn for duty, and that’s when the shit hit the fan—excuse the American expression. It fits.”
He turned to Yermolov. “When I came after you, sir, I had no idea who you were. I only knew that I had orders to capture or kill a rogue general. I oppose Gorbachev’s policies, and apologize for what took place. If you’re going to put me away, do it now.”
“That would be a mistake,” Kutuzov interrupted. “We have few men with character in our country who’ll do what’s right. Leave him in my command. I’ll make sure he behaves.”
Yermolov studied them both. “No need to make decisions now.” He let a measure of Paul Clary’s good nature show through. “We can find a role for our young major that makes best use of his talents.” He spoke to Ivan again. His tone was borderline friendly, but his eyes pierced. “I promised to keep an eye on your family,” he said. “Your wife and son are well and safe.”
Ivan resisted a ferocious impulse. “Thank you, sir.”
Yermolov studied him.
Drygin waited outside Fierko’s office. Events raced to a climax, and he was out of the loop. After this afternoon’s conference, Yermolov’s stature would take a quantum leap, but he’s suspicious of me.
He proceeded into cold calculation. Yermolov will try to take me down. I won’t let that happen.
Fierko opened his door and gestured for Drygin to enter. “You sounded concerned.”
“I won’t mince words,” Drygin replied. “I’m in trouble.”
“You said so on the phone. I passed your concern to Comrade Murin. He said to reassure you that you would be a rising star.”
Drygin sat deathly calm, understanding the weight of what he was about to say. “Our enemy is no longer only the US. It’s also the Soviet regime. Now is not the time to threaten Stalin-like purges.”
He looked around as if searching for words. “I’ve been in close quarters with Yermolov a long time. He only cares for power. He projects a reasonable image, but goes into rages. Just as quickly he reverts to courtesy. I think he’s insane.”
Fierko listened intently. When Drygin had finished, he stared without expression. At last he spoke. “The die is cast. We’ve crossed the Rubicon. Pick your metaphor. We can’t reverse.”
Drygin returned his stare. “We’re between the potential extinction of the Soviet Union, or a return to a Stalinist era like never before. Comrade Murin must be informed.”
“I can tell you only that elements are in place to contain Yermolov,” Fierko said. “Meanwhile, you’ll have to rely on Comrade Murin’s statement that you’ll be a rising star.” There was no more insight he could offer. They both knew it.
Fierko escorted Drygin out. “Anything more on that briefcase?” Fierko asked as they reached the door.
“No. He locked it away on arrival, and I haven’t seen it since.”
“Well, maybe it was just as Chairman Murin guessed—he’s being protective of his documents.”
Yermolov’s eyes blinked open. He sat up in bed. Major Chekov couldn’t get travel documents so rapidly in Paris without high-echelon help—ambassador-level help. Why would the ambassador help him?
As soon as he formulated the question, the answer flashed in his mind. Aznabaev is one of Gorbachev’s best friends.
He dressed quickly and went to Drygin’s room. “Call a staff meeting. Do it now.”
Thirty minutes later, Yermolov watched as Drygin and the primary staff officers filed half-asleep into the conference room. He felt in better control among his own staff, despite that he had selected none of them.
When they were seated, he addressed them. “We need to review our situation.” He steeled himself to remain calm, knowing that if his staff sensed his anxiety, word would spread.
He smiled easily in his best Paul Clary guise, and looked at each of them. “I’m sorry I didn’t brief you immediately on my return from the generals’ conference. The meeting went well. We received the support of each of the major commanders present, as well as the KGB, and the Party member representing the Politburo. We are moving forward.”
Several staff officers thumped the table and nudged each other in approval. The mood in the room brightened a bit.
“We can’t celebrate yet,” Yermolov went on, “but there was a development you’ll want to know about. Earlier tonight, Major Chekov delivered Atcho and his partner to us, in Kutuzov’s office. Chekov wasn’t dead after all, and he performed a tremendous service.”
Amid exclamations, Yermolov briefed the events of the evening. “We have loose ends,” he said, after he had concluded. He turned to Drygin. “Is there any news on Ms. Stahl or Collins?”
Drygin shook his head. “Negative. The last time we saw either of them was four days ago, in Paris.”
Yermolov’s eyes almost closed as he dropped his head in thought. “I don’t like it. They’re not going to stop whatever they’re doing. We need to know where they are, and why. What about Chekov’s family? I ordered them brought here.”
“We went through Fierko’s office to accomplish that,” Drygin responded. “They’ve disappeared.”
“What do you mean?” Yermolov snapped.
Drygin kept his expression dry. “They are not in their house. They disappeared the same night you issued the order. The officers spoke with neighbors. No one knows where they went. A woman said she saw them taken away in dark cars. That’s all the we have.”
The muscles in Yermolov’s face rippled into controlled anger. Does Chekov know? “When did you intend to tell me?”
Drygin leaned forward. “I’m telling you now.” The staff members froze. Deathly quiet permeated the room. “The order went out as soon as you issued it. Yesterday we moved from Romania to here, and today you were in meetings.” He pressed forward, and his posture expressed that he was coming to the end of patience. “We’ve followed up diligently, and tonight received the word I just gave you. I had intended to inform you at our first meeting in the morning, and that’s what I’m doing now.”
Yermolov studied him. This man openly defies me. I’ll make an example of him after the coup. “All right. Keep me informed.” He looked around the room. “We’ve made progress, but we’re not home yet. If anything, our security must increase.” His eyes bored into Drygin, who returned his gaze, unblinking. “Find them!”
Drygin nodded.
“I’m going to interrogate Atcho later. Colonel Drygin, you’ll come with me. I want you to keep an eye on Major Chekov. I don’t trust him.
“Also, we need to reach out to Rasputin’s followers, to generate goodwill.” He instructed the adjutant to put together a reception for the sect leaders. “It should be low-key, but provide our guests an opportunity to feel important. You’re all expected to be there.” He smiled in his best Paul Clary style
. “Be friendly. That’ll be a new skill for many of you, a valuable one.” His expression returned to stone. “Colonel Drygin, we’ll leave right after the regular staff meeting.”
Chapter 38
Atcho sat in the corner of a dark cell in the basement, two floors below Kutuzov’s office. Rafael sat across from him. They had watched in alarm when, on entering Kutuzov’s office behind Ivan, Yermolov rose from his chair. Their apprehension grew to dismay when Ivan reported to Yermolov at attention. Neither needed to understand Russian to realize what was taking place.
When Yermolov had stood with his face so close that Atcho could feel and smell his rank breath, fury rose to explosive levels. It was Yermolov who had controlled Atcho from shadows for so many years. It was he who had kidnapped Atcho’s little girl; imprisoned Atcho; laughed at the death of Atcho’s best friend, Juan; and coerced Atcho into the assassination conspiracy.
Rage unleashed, Atcho had struck on instinct, inviting a bullet with each blow. Now, Atcho tried to see Rafael through the darkness. “Rafi, what are you thinking?”
“That our gooses are cooked,” Rafael called back. “Or is it that our geese are cooked?”
Atcho chuckled. “That’s what you’re thinking right now?”
A guard rattled the door. Rafael paid no heed. “What does he think he’s going to do, send us to Siberia?” He laughed. “Yeah, I’m thinking about those geese right now. That and what I’ll do to Ivan when we get loose.” He smacked a fist into his other hand, and then grinned in the dark. “I knew you were trouble when you showed up at the Bay of Pigs with that tank!”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t go there. You tried to send me home when we were back in Paris.” He chuckled. “But did you have to antagonize our host?”
The guard rattled the door again, and opened the hatch. Rafael clambered to his feet, strolled to the door, and raked the dark space beyond. “You aren’t going to shoot me.”
The guard flipped a switch that illuminated his face. He raised a pistol, aimed it directly at Rafael, and pulled the slider. In perfect English, he said, “My orders are to use any force required to keep you from talking.”
“Oh,” Rafael said. “Time for a snooze.” He ambled back to his corner, lay down, and closed his eyes. The guard flipped the switch, immersing the cell in darkness once more.
For a while, Rafael thought of his long friendship with Atcho. He had been amazed when Atcho had blazed through massive fire in the jungle near the Bay of Pigs in Cuba, in a recaptured American tank, delivered it to Rafael’s unit in Brigade 2506, and then almost as rapidly, had disappeared. Atcho’s legend had grown such that he was a hero among the counter-Castro fighting forces, and he was feared among Castro’s own soldiers. He had been a ghost, and even after capture, he had spent nineteen years in the dungeons without Castro ever learning that Atcho was his prisoner. Only on his arrival in Miami did he become known for who he was, and received a hero’s welcome.
In the intervening time since their jungle encounter, Rafael had languished a year in the same prison where Atcho had spent most of his time, though they never saw each other there. When Rafael was released with the rest of Brigade 2506 under terms of agreement with Cuba negotiated by President Kennedy, he settled in Miami, where he had built a successful real estate brokerage.
Rafael had always felt that he owed Atcho. Unfortunately, the Kennedy agreement did not cover political prisoners, like Atcho, who had still lived in Cuba prior to the invasion, and so he continued to suffer in Castro’s dungeons. Rafael had thought about Atcho often during the intervening years, and had been thrilled to see that he finally gained freedom.
When Atcho had been honored by President Reagan years later, Rafael had been thrilled to fly to Washington to be present at the reception where they renewed their acquaintance. Later that year, when Atcho called upon Rafael to protect his family while he broke Yermolov’s assassination conspiracy, Rafael had been happy to help, and found volunteers from veterans of Brigade 2506 eager to keep Atcho’s family safe. They had provided effective security under the noses of Yermolov’s men and the Secret Service, without detection.
Now, despite his affection for Atcho and his own outward show of bravado, he was worried. He too had a wife he loved, and sons and daughters and now grandchildren, whose lives would be upended if he should not return from Siberia. Atcho, I hope you get us out of this. But I’ll never let you down.
Atcho was sleepless. An indeterminate amount of time had passed. He peered in Rafael’s direction. More time passed. He stood, and running his hand along the wall as a guide, he walked to the front of the cell.
There, he felt along the hatch in the door, estimating its dimensions. Then, he jerked it. Clanking steel resounded through the cell. He heard the guard outside stir in response. He jerked the door again, and kept shaking it. The clanking reverberated.
The hatch in the door slid open. The guard’s silhouette appeared against a dimly lit background. “Quiet!” he ordered. “Do that again, and …” He left the threat unspoken.
“We need blankets.”
“No blankets.” The guard reached up to close the hatch.
“You’re Spetsnaz, aren’t you?” Atcho called out to him.
“What?”
“You’re Spetsnaz. Elite troops, like the US Special Forces.”
The guard grunted derisively. “They wish!”
“I was trained by the Spetsnaz,” Atcho went on. “Years ago. The KGB brought me to one of those camps outside of Moscow that don’t exist. They trained me to spy in the US.”
The guard peered at him. “So what?” He reached up to close the hatch. Atcho grabbed the sides of the door and shook it again so that it clanged loudly. “Now look,” the guard bellowed, and he brought his face close to the opening.
In a flash, Atcho threw his arm around the guard’s neck, and pulled it to the narrow opening. “Listen carefully,” he hissed, his mouth only inches from the guard’s ear. “You can die right now, or you can save yourself. I don’t care either way. All I have to do is jerk down. You’ll suffocate; your neck will break; or both. Your choice.”
The guard gurgled a response.
“Give me your pistol. Right here in my hand. You can shoot me, if you want my dead weight on your neck. But you’d better not miss.” He felt the guard move. Seconds later he felt the cold steel against his hand.
Atcho took it with his free hand. “Rafael,” he called above a whisper. “Wake up. Come over here.”
“I’m right behind you. Who can sleep with all that clanging?”
“Unlock the door,” Atcho told the guard.
The hapless man attempted to shake his head despite the pressure on his throat. Atcho pressed the pistol against his head. “Open this door, now!”
“No key,” the guard gurgled.
“Rafi, shoot the hasp. Don’t worry about noise. If we don’t get out of here now, we’re dead.”
Seconds later, the sound of a shot exploded through the cell and echoed down the corridor. The guard struggled, but Atcho held his throat pinned to the edge of the opening.
Rafael tried the door. It held firm.
From down the hall, they heard shouts and running footsteps. Rafael put the pistol to the hasp and fired again.
Atcho’s ears rang, but when he pulled the door, it gave way. As it swung, he dragged the guard with it and applied greater pressure to the man’s throat, blocking his airway. Within seconds, the guard blacked out. Atcho released him, and he slumped to the floor.
The running footsteps drew closer. They slowed to a walk as they approached the cell door. Atcho peered around the corner.
“Come out,” a voice commanded. It was Ivan’s. Rafael swore. Someone flipped the switch, throwing dim light along the corridor.
Moments passed. “You can’t escape,” Ivan called. “I have three guards with me. They will shoot to kill.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Rafael whispered to Atcho.
“I know. Let’s go.”
Rafael threw the pistol into the corridor. Ivan picked it up and slid it into his belt. Then Atcho and Rafael came out. Two guards moved behind them.
Ivan waited while the guards handcuffed them and handed him the key. “We’ll take them to a more secure place,” he said. He peered inside the cell at the unconscious soldier, and waved one of the guards to attend to him. “You. Stay here until he wakes up.”
He picked out the biggest of the three guards. “You come with me to escort the prisoners. Bring your weapon.”
He turned to the third one. “Bring the staff car around front. Then report to the sergeant-of-the-guard that Colonel Chekov took the prisoners into custody for transfer to KGB headquarters.” He looked between the guards. “Do you understand your instructions?” When they nodded, he gestured to Atcho and Rafael. “Let’s go.” Rafael shot him a deadly glance.
While Ivan covered his prisoners with his pistol, the big guard drove through empty streets toward the main thoroughfare that would take them to the regional KGB headquarters at Lenin Square. Atcho and Rafael sat in the tiny backseat, their arms handcuffed behind them.
“When I get free, I’m going to break your neck,” Rafael growled.
“You’ll try.” Ivan kept his pistol pointed at them. He said something to the guard, who steered the vehicle through a left turn onto a secondary road. Soon the city fell away, and snowy fields on either side of the car reflected the light of the full moon.
Ivan seemed to be looking for something. He spotted a road and told the driver to take the turn. The gravel lane was narrow and led into low, forested hills.
Atcho and Rafael glanced at each other. The driver squinted at Ivan as if to confirm instructions. Shortly after entering the forest, Ivan told the driver to turn the car around and pull over.
When the car stopped, all were silent a few moments. “Sit still,” Ivan commanded his prisoners. Then, he turned and shoved the muzzle of his pistol against the guard’s neck, and spoke to him harshly in Russian. The soldier looked terrified. He handed his Makarov to Ivan.