by Lee Jackson
In the backseat, Atcho and Rafael exchanged stares. “Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” Rafael muttered.
“Shut up,” Ivan called back. “Don’t screw this up.”
The guard clambered out of the car and trudged up the road, continuing in the same direction they had come. Ivan got out and watched him until he disappeared over a moonlit, snow-covered ridge a quarter mile away. The cold moon observed, uncaring.
Rafael called to him. “Are you going to take these handcuffs off?”
“Be quiet. I’m thinking.”
“I sure thought you had sold us out.”
“What did you want me to do?” Ivan’s voice was thick with irritation. “Yermolov was right there.”
Ten minutes later, Ivan drove the car onto the main highway going away from Novosibirsk. Atcho sat in the passenger seat, and Rafael stretched as best he could in the rear. Both were free of handcuffs, and Ivan had returned their Glocks and spare magazines. He kept the two Makarovs he had taken from the guards.
“Yermolov ordered your execution,” he told Atcho. “He wants to be rid of a threat that won’t go away.”
“Does that let me off the hook?” Rafael bantered. He rubbed his wrists to restore circulation.
“No. You’d have been condemned by association.”
“They’ll be after you too, Ivan,” Atcho remarked.
Ivan shrugged. “They haven’t picked a date to put their plan into motion, but it’s predictable. I learned a lot last night.”
Kutuzov had revealed that in five days, Gorbachev would go on vacation to his dacha by the Black Sea at Foros in the Crimea. While there, the general secretary would be reported sick and under a doctor’s care.
The KGB would cut his communications and isolate him from the news. Meanwhile, the rest of the military would be co-opted. “When he returns to Moscow, he’ll be forced to resign in favor of Yermolov. The public will be told that he’s too sick to continue in office.”
“What if he refuses?” Atcho asked.
“He’ll need medical treatment for real—or an undertaker.”
Atcho absorbed that. The cold crept in deeper, and he folded his arms for warmth. “What do we do now?”
“I got you close to Yermolov,” Ivan replied. “It’s your call.”
Atcho nodded. The impossibility of what he was to accomplish bore down. Sofia tugged at his mind, and he briefly thought about Collins. He’s probably long gone. “Yermolov doesn’t know that we’re just three guys in a tiny car in the snows of Siberia, with no plan or support,” he said.
“True,” Ivan agreed, “but now they have confirmation that Gorbachev knows Yermolov is alive, in country, and intends a coup. Before, they had only an unconfirmed report that Yermolov was seen in Paris.”
Atcho thought out loud. “How could we get word out about their plan?”
“I can command a telephone at any police station.”
“You’re a KGB major on the run.”
“My ID says I’m a colonel. It’ll be hours before that soldier gets back to his unit and sounds the alarm. We’ve got time. I can throw some weight around.”
“Who would you call?”
“Gorbachev.”
Startled, Atcho asked, “You can call him directly?”
Ivan shrugged. “He sent down a personal number while I was at the embassy in Paris.”
Rafael stared at him. “And you didn’t tell us?”
“A matter of trust,” Ivan retorted.
Rafael scoffed. “Murin will love bugging that conversation.”
“Murin won’t expose himself,” Ivan replied. “The generals won’t cross him. They know he could deliver a deathblow to any of them. He has deniability through a Politburo member that attended the conference, and he commands the largest single military-type unit in the Soviet Union, the KGB. He’s covered his tracks.”
“Can you get us to Moscow,” Atcho asked, “or Crimea?”
“They’re nearly nine hundred miles apart. What happens if they switch the plan to Moscow, and we’re in Crimea?”
Atcho sat deep in thought. The little car puttered through the half-light of a full moon over a desolate road traversing fields of snow. “We definitely need to inform Gorbachev,” he said after a time. “But he still doesn’t know who might betray him. Yermolov thinks he’s won. We might have forced him to change his plan, but he’ll keep on.” He faced Ivan and Rafael in the moonlight. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Turn around.”
Ivan shot Atcho a wondering glance, but maneuvered the car on the narrow road to head in the opposite direction. In the backseat, Rafael half-grinned. “Here we go again.”
As they drove back toward Novosibirsk, Atcho explained. When he had finished, Ivan said, “That’s risky.”
“Compared to what?” Rafael muttered.
“The fast alternative nearly got us killed,” Atcho said. “We’ll have to get to Yermolov the slow way, and we don’t have much time.”
A few miles further on, they stopped at a nondescript town whose primary feature was a police station. There, Ivan used the full force of a KGB colonel to demand a private office with a telephone. After impressing on the senior officer the consequences of eavesdropping, he placed a call to Gorbachev.
The general secretary answered on the third ring. Ivan explained Yermolov’s plan and identified as many participants in the conspiracy as he knew of. Gorbachev listened intently. When Ivan mentioned Kutuzov and Fierko, he expected a reaction, but Gorbachev remained ominously silent.
“They’ll move against you either in Moscow before you leave, or while you’re on vacation at your dacha.”
“Move against me,” Gorbachev repeated brusquely. “We’ll see. I can take action to shake that up.” He did not explain.
They went over Atcho’s plans for Novosibirsk. Gorbachev grunted. “I don’t underestimate Atcho.”
Collins felt restless as he waited for news. The phone rang. “It’s me. Jakes.” The editor sounded tired.
“What’s up?”
“The articles are published. In a few hours, they’ll appear under your byline in Pravda and Izvestia in Moscow.”
“Thanks. I’d like to know that they’re effective.”
“We’ll know soon. Bye.”
Sofia stepped into the CIA station chief’s office. She had received a message that he wanted to see her.
“I thought you’d want to know about this,” McFadden told her. He held out a newspaper. It was in Russian. In the far-right column was a pencil-sketched visage of Rasputin. “This is today’s Pravda,” he said. “The article is about fake Rasputin descendants. It was written by a Washington Herald reporter, Tony Collins.” He held out a photograph. “Is this the old man you met the other night?”
Sofia peered at the sketch. The man was grayed and bent, but he portrayed dignity, undiminished by the penciled rendering, or his simple clothing. “It could be. Do you have a photo from the side? I met him in the dark.”
McFadden produced another likeness, this one in profile. The two images were unmistakably of the same man, but in the photo his head was canted at a peculiar angle, perhaps because of age, or from injury. “Yes! I’m sure that’s the man I met. His neck had that angle. It was like he couldn’t move it out of that position.”
“Lady, you sure get around. That’s the top guy of the Orthodox Church in Moscow.”
“I told Burly that. You heard me.”
“That I did. We need to make sure he sees this article. Quickly.”
“Okay, I can do that. Tell me—”
“We’ll handle it,” McFadden said firmly. “There’s another issue.” He looked grim. “Burly told me that you know something about the NukeX.”
Sofia nodded. McFadden produced a box from his drawer. “This is the NukeX. It arrived by diplomatic pouch last night. Burly didn’t want to mention it or the nuke to Atcho until he could either send it, or find out that it wouldn’t be available. Then Atcho left Paris before expect
ed.
“We need to get the device into Atcho’s hands and warn him about the nuke. I need to know everything you know about where he might be and what he looks like, and the same stuff for the two guys that are with him. Gorbachev will provide transportation out there.”
Sofia stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
McFadden gave her a grim look. “I wish I were. The threat’s been confirmed. Atcho will have to locate Yermolov, and disarm the bomb with the NukeX. If he doesn’t…” McFadden puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape through pursed lips.
“Send me,” Sofia exclaimed.
Startled, McFadden stared at her. “No way. You’re too personally involved. You’ve done your part. Time for someone else to step in.”
“Send me,” Sofia insisted. She gripped the desk, and leaned over it with a fierce expression. “Look, we still have to find Atcho, and when we do, he has to trust whoever we send. We might only have seconds. He knows me. He doesn’t know anyone else here, and right now we don’t have direct commo.”
McFadden regarded her stubbornly. “No. You’re an analyst.”
“Listen to me.” Sofia circled the desk and stuck her face up near McFadden’s. “I’m a trained officer with over ten years of field experience, and I’m fluent in Russian.” She saw him still hesitate. “I stayed ahead of the whole CIA all the way here, and shook you off. Do I need to remind you how I got into this embassy?”
If her comment irritated McFadden, he did not show it. He continued to study her.
“Send me,” Sofia repeated impatiently. “We don’t have time for debate. There’s no one here more ready than me to do this mission.” She reached up and shoved McFadden’s shoulders with the open palms of her hands. “Brief me. Let’s go.”
Chapter 39
Yermolov’s eyes blinked open again. He sat up. Feelings of overwhelm approached. Loose ends were beyond his control. Having Atcho and his sidekick in a cell was good. But where are Tony Collins and Sofia Stahl? He lay back in his bed and tried to sleep, but then sat up again sharply. Where is Ivan Chekov’s family?
Just as troubling, Drygin barely disguised his hostility. For the moment, Yermolov was powerless to act. But in a few days… He exulted momentarily over a mental image of subjecting Drygin to his will from the Kremlin.
He looked at his watch. It showed seven o’clock, an hour before the staff meeting. From there, he and Drygin would go to interrogate Atcho. I want to see Atcho die, to be sure it happens.
An hour later he entered the conference room where Drygin and the staff were already assembled. “What’s the progress on Collins, Sofia Stahl, and Chekov’s family?” He asked the question abruptly, and without regard for normal staff-meeting protocol.
“No change.” Drygin regarded him with his steady, unwavering gaze. “But, we received an article on the front page of Pravda. The story came from one of the newswires, so it’s out internationally. I think you’ll want to see it.” He held up a typed set of pages.
Yermolov gave Drygin a caustic glance and turned to his adjutant. “Get me some coffee.” He read the paper’s first line, and blanched.
“Fake Rasputin Descendants Proliferate,” the headline proclaimed. The name of the author arrested his attention: Tony Collins.
The adjutant arrived at Yermolov’s elbow with a mug of steaming coffee, and reached around to hand it to him. In a surge of anger, Yermolov knocked the coffee away. It spilled across the adjutant’s arm onto the table, with some of it splashing into Yermolov’s lap. He leaped to his feet, his eyes bulging in rage.
The adjutant was a decorated major. He held his arm, and although he did not cry out, his face showed excruciating pain.
Yermolov tried a Paul Clary compassionate response, but his voice sounded terse. “My fault. Get that arm seen to right away.” He turned to Drygin. “Get a car. We’re going to see Kutuzov. Now.”
Colonel General Kutuzov watched through his second-story window as Yermolov arrived. Today’s Pravda rested on his desk. In the far-right column above the fold was the sketch of Rasputin. Kutuzov had scanned the article. It was innocuous, telling only of the mystic’s life and influence on Tsar Nicholas. The main thrust, however, was that over the years, people had claimed direct ancestry from Rasputin, just as they had from the Romanovs. Those claims had been debunked.
Side articles added depth. One went into detail about methods of aging paper and ink. Another discussed techniques used to dispel doubt about the age of almost any object, including documents.
The combined thrust of the articles seemed to have purposes beyond informing the public. No such pieces could have appeared on the front page of official Soviet newspapers without Kremlin sanction—or more specifically, without Gorbachev’s consent. They constituted a warning: the general secretary’s suspicions were high and pointed in a specific direction; and they derided anyone making or believing such ancestral claims. They threatened to isolate Yermolov from the Rasputin group and the Russian Orthodox Church. That an American received credit for the main article published in Soviet flagship newspapers implied close cooperation between the United States and the Soviet Union.
Yermolov entered with Drygin. “Sorry to barge in,” he said with forced affability. He glanced at the desk, and his attention landed on the issue of Pravda. “You read the news. What’s your take?”
“It’s a setback,” Kutuzov replied. As Yermolov and Drygin took their seats, he sat down behind his desk. “I don’t see it as a major blow. The Rasputin group’s part is done. They gave you a haven and finance during planning, and helped stage your move back here. Any more support from them was peripheral, and no longer needed. We didn’t mention them to the generals at the conference.”
Yermolov listened without immediate response. Then he exhaled, genuinely relieved. “I’m glad we agree.” He turned to Drygin. “Call Fierko. See what he thinks.”
Drygin started to rise, but before he was fully standing, Kutuzov cut in. “There’s something else you need to know. Atcho and his companion tried to escape last night.”
When Kutuzov saw Yermolov’s eyes widen, he raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Major Chekov caught them right after they overpowered the guard. He transferred them to KGB headquarters. That facility is much more secure.”
“Chekov?” Yermolov growled. “Let’s get that interrogation done.” He turned to Drygin. “Find out about Atcho’s status.”
Drygin moved rapidly. He told the soldier at the front desk, “I need a room with a secure line.” Moments later, two junior officers in the intelligence section vacated their office, leaving Drygin alone.
“I’m at General Kutuzov’s office with General Yermolov,” he said when Fierko came on the line. “They want your views of this morning’s article in Pravda.”
“I just read it, but haven’t analyzed it. Tell them we should talk in person this afternoon.”
“I’ll pass that on.” Drygin’s adherence to decorum declined. “They want to know the status on Atcho.”
Fierko was not amused. “What’s an Atcho?”
“The man who caught Yermolov in Havana last year.” Drygin gave a quick rundown. “Yermolov wants to interrogate him.”
“Give me a minute.” When Fierko came back on the line he sounded agitated. “No one came to our facility last night; no KGB major, no Atcho, no anybody.”
Drygin sat forward in his chair. “Are you sure?”
“I’d know if someone were to be interrogated in my facility, particularly when it’s this sensitive.”
“My mistake.” Drygin felt low-key elation. The Pravda article and Atcho’s disappearance were two chinks in Yermolov’s armor.
When he relayed the message, Kutuzov placed an immediate conference call to Fierko. “Where are the prisoners that were taken there last night?”
“I’d like to know,” Fierko replied, his voice icy. “No prisoners arrived here, and no major. They must have left your location eight hours ago. I assume they escaped.
Your major could be dead.”
Yermolov felt pincers tighten in his stomach. “I’m coming to your headquarters,” he announced. He modulated his voice to sound authoritative without being tyrannical. “We need to discuss the Pravda articles and have a phone call with Chairman Murin.”
Fierko was quiet. “Be here in an hour,” he said at last. “I’ll inform Comrade Murin that you, General Yermolov, requested a conference. I’ll let him know of Atcho and his disappearance. Meanwhile, I’ll send out investigators to find out what happened with the prisoners and the major. Anything else?”
With each point, Yermolov felt anxiety rise. “You stated the issues. Do you have any questions?”
“No, but for your information, Gorbachev cancelled his vacation in the Crimea. Think about it. He allowed those articles onto the front pages of the newspapers, and then he changed plans with no explanation. His radar is up.”
And the two men who caught me last year are loose. Together.
Chapter 40
An hour later in Fierko’s office, the three generals viewed each other guardedly. “Do we know anything about the whereabouts of Atcho and Chekov?” Yermolov asked.
Fierko turned to Kutuzov. “He was your prisoner. A single guard accompanied the transfer. Chekov had an ID showing he is a colonel. Have you heard anything about the soldier?”
Kutuzov took his time to reply. “My staff is working on it,” he said coldly. “I came to discuss the Pravda article. If that’s not why we’re here, I’ll go back to my command.” He directed his eyes to Yermolov. “I assume that Chekov, whatever his rank, was helping Atcho.”
Yermolov returned Kutuzov’s steady gaze. “I requested a conference call to Chairman Murin.” He turned to Fierko. “Place the call.” His command brooked no challenge.
Fierko stared back, and then dialed the number. Murin’s smoke-worn voice sounded over the voice box. “General Fierko, do we all know the same things?” There was no sound of warmth.