Duel of Assassins

by Dan Pollock

  Taras nodded. He was still, frankly, a little boggled at not only finding himself in the White House, but seated across a coffee table from an affable, accessible President of the United States. It took a moment to recall that among Washington insiders, “Scotty,” for some obscure reason, referred to Ackerman; Taras had heard Charlotte use the nickname.

  Ackerman assented: “It seems, Taras—may I call you that?—your old bosses in the KGB want to hire your services.”

  “I never worked for the KGB, sir. I was in GRU, military intelligence, and special operations, Spetsnaz.”

  “Forgive me,” Ackerman said.

  “In any case,” Jones resumed, “it’s actually the Politburo who want to hire you. But if you accept, you’ll be working with the KGB.”

  “And that’s precisely the point,” Ledbetter said, hunched in his wheelchair and sipping coffee. “That division defines one of so many volatile situations in the U.S.S.R., of which you are doubtless aware. The KGB is mounting this operation against a renegade Spetsnaz assassin, who is apparently directed by a conspiracy of high-ranking Red Army officers, led by—”

  “Rodion Marchenko,” Taras said. “I worked with him. But he’s been exiled, to Novosibirsk.”

  “A little farther than that, I’d say,” Ackerman said.

  Buck Jones turned to Arensky: “The Politburo notified us earlier today that General Marchenko has been executed as a traitor—”

  “Svolochi!” Arensky swore in Russian. “Bastards!”

  “—but not before he unleashed his best assassin.”

  “To kill Rybkin?”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  Ledbetter sketched in the few other details that were known of the conspiracy. The attempt, clearly, was to eliminate President Rybkin before he could go any farther with his overtures to the West, and specifically surrender any measure of Soviet sovereignty in order to secure his country’s place in the new European order—things the conspirators obviously feared might occur at the Potsdam Conference.

  “But this is nothing new, gentlemen,” Arensky said. “It is a very long-running Mussorgsky opera we are seeing over there again, an endless Time of Troubles. Why shouldn’t everyone want to kill him?”

  “You’re being facetious,” Ledbetter said.

  “Perhaps a little.”

  Jones chuckled. “So what do you think Rybkin’s game will be at Potsdam?”

  “His ‘Greater Europe’ initiative? Personally I think it is a desperate PR measure. The man is running out of cards to play.”

  “Exactly,” said Ledbetter. “One would have thought, for instance, that more could have been gotten in exchange for all of Eastern Europe.”

  “But my opinion is meaningless. There are many varieties of anti-Rybkinism in the Soviet Union. Some, like Marchenko, think the President is simply a traitor, eager to trade the Russian birthright for a mess of European pottage. Others think he is a megalomaniac, intent on restoring Russian greatness, and pos-sibly even with Napoleonic designs on being the emperor of this supposed new order from the Atlantic to the Urals. Members of Pamyat, on the other hand, are convinced he is contaminated with Jewish blood and is a tool of an international Zionist conspiracy. And there are Orthodox fanatics who are equally convinced Alois Rybkin is the Antichrist, who will turn the Eurasian continent into a Beast with Ten Horns and Ten Crowns. Take your pick.”

  “I agree with you,” Ledbetter said. “Rybkin is not Ivan the Terrible, Rasputin, Napoleon or the Beast from the Apocalypse. He’s really coming to Potsdam with his hand out. Their energy crisis is endemic, and without oil and gas to offer Europe, what have they got?”

  “Weaponry,” said Jones. “That’s his hole card to buy into Europe, and everybody knows it.”

  “Amen to that,” Ledbetter said. “The trouble is—”

  “The trouble is,” Ackerman overrode, banging down his coffee cup, “whatever Rybkin’s play, we’re committed to going along with it—to a point. He can stretch his ‘Greater Europe’ to the Urals and all the way east to Siberia if it makes him happy, so long as it also stretches west across the Atlantic to include us. But Christ, the man knows this. I went cross-country skiing with him in Finland, for God’s sake. Alois Rybkin is one tough, shrewd bastard.”

  “What Scotty’s saying,” Ledbetter began—

  “I think I can speak for myself, Gene, without you inter-preting. What I’m saying is, we didn’t bring Taras here for a pointless debate on geopolitics. We’re going forward as full partners with Rybkin on Potsdam. Our technical team is already sitting down with their side in Vienna to work out a draft agreement, and, so far as I’ve heard, there’s nothing that’s come up yet that looks like the end of civilization as we know it—”

  “That depends, Scotty.”

  “For Christ sake, Buck, it depends on what?”

  “On whether you keep the keys to the ammo dump.”

  “Gene, make a note of that.”

  “Right. Keep-keys-ammo-dump. Got it.”

  “Satisfied now, Buck?”

  “I feel much better.”

  “So where the hell was I? Okay, what scares me—one hell of a lot more than Russian participation in a new European security arrangement—is what happens if we lose Rybkin to an assassin’s bullet, and have to deal with a bunch of neo-Stalinists again—trigger-happy generals like this old bastard Marchenko.”

  “I think that’s where you come in,” Buck Jones said.

  Arensky looked surprised. “Oh? I’m supposed to save the world from the Kremlin hard-liners? Why me?”

  “Because the KGB picked you.”

  “To do what? Protect Rybkin from assassins?”

  “Partly.”

  “Look, I don’t know how many Secret Service and White House Police you have here, on Pennsylvania Avenue and around the grounds and so forth. I’m sure it’s more than adequate. But Rybkin has an entire regiment of KGB guards, right in the Kremlin, in their own four-story barracks. Why do they ask for me?”

  “Simple. They want you to assassinate this assassin—before he can get to Rybkin.” Jones pointed his finger at Arensky’s chest.

  “Wait, Mr. Jones. Let’s get something straight here. I’m not an assassin, I never was, I never will be—no matter what the KGB tells you. Yes, I did special operations for the GRU, but there are things which I refused to do for my country. And, gentlemen, that is why I left it. They are the same things I will refuse to do for my new country.”

  “Okay, calm down, Taras. I apologize for the... uh, unfortunate implication. Anyway, that’s not the issue here. Really, all the KGB is saying is that you were very close to this guy, and the only one, apparently, who ever outscored him in Spetsnaz training exercises and outperformed him in Afghanistan on special ops.”

  Taras asked quietly: “Marcus Jolly?”

  “Yeah. Funny name for a Russian killer.”

  “He was born in America,” Arensky said.

  “Yeah, that’s about all we do know about him. A teenaged defector back in 1977. I understand even the Agency’s file on him is pretty sparse. They’re hoping you can add to it.”

  Taras sat back, absorbing the blow. Marcus, as the hit man in an attempt on Rybkin. It was lunacy. Yet, if anyone could pull it off, it would be Marcus.

  “You did know him?”

  “He was my best friend for almost ten years. I begged him to defect with me, in Afghanistan. He said once was enough. Besides, he did not object to the same things I objected to.”

  “Destroying villages?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Is he as good as they say?” Jones asked.

  “At killing? It’s been five years since we worked together. Certainly he was very good with weapons, in combat situations, clandestine operations, survival techniques, taking risks. At certain things perhaps he was the best. It’s hard to imagine anyone getting close to Rybkin in Moscow, though.”

  “What about one of his own people? Didn’t some Russi
an officer almost get Brezhnev?”

  “Fairly close. A young Army lieutenant pulled out two pistols and shot up his motorcade near one of the Kremlin gates. He killed a driver and wounded a cosmonaut. Brezhnev was in another car, and the man was captured at once. Even Lenin was nearly killed in 1918. So yes, under certain circumstances, it could be done. And Marcus is very good at impersonations. But he is a professional, not a lunatic or kamikaze; he would wish to escape after.”

  “That attempt on Brezhnev would make a hell of a chase scene, wouldn’t it?” Jones said. “Fleeing Red Square with a few thousand KGB on your tail?”

  “Let’s move along, Buck,” the President said. “It’s getting damn late, and Taras may have a long night ahead of him.”

  Jones nodded. “Taras, here’s the deal. They want you to fly to Moscow immediately, to work with their people on the security details for the Potsdam trip, and then basically to follow your own hunches in tracking down Jolly. They’ll provide manpower —whatever resources you want.” The chief of staff paused. “I don’t have to tell you, this is a big one. Your cooperation here would mean a lot.”

  Arensky smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry. I can’t accept the assignment.”

  There was sudden silence in the room, broken by Jones:

  “We understand your reluctance to return to Moscow. But your freedom has been absolutely guaranteed.”

  Taras chuckled.

  “You find that amusing?”

  “You could say that. When the KGB found out I was working for the CIA, they had a military tribunal sentence me to death in absentia. Despite all the reforms, that sentence has never been lifted.” Taras poured himself more coffee. “Anyway, I have other reasons for saying no.”

  “Tell us what they are,” Ackerman prompted.

  “Several things, Mr. President. I still dare not trust the Soviets as far as my safety or their promises. And that includes Rybkin. Obviously I am in sympathy with continuing reforms. And I admire his skill as a diplomat, but I don’t trust the man or his visions. As someone said about Andropov, he’s not exactly a product of a lady’s finishing school.”

  “We take your point,” Ledbetter said. “Go on.”

  “There’s also a personal reason. I’m engaged to be married.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Ackerman said. “Congratulations. We’re all admirers of Charlotte. She’s the one, I take it?”

  “If she forgives me for disappearing tonight without telling her. She’s got a temper.”

  Buck Jones grinned. “Maybe Scotty can write you an excuse.”

  “That won’t help—if I accept your assignment. Then it’s all over between us. I promised Charlotte I’d turn in my cloak and dagger, as she says. My current CIA assignment will finish early this summer. Starting next fall I’ve accepted a post in Soviet studies with the Chalmers Institute.”

  “Is that what you really want to do?” Jones asked. “Retire to a think tank, at your age?”

  “I’m thirty-four. Time to slow down, I think. But, okay, maybe it’s more what she wants. It is, for her, a necessary condition of our marriage.”

  “A forceful lady,” Ackerman said. “And after all, I’m only the President.”

  “She wishes children, Mr. President, and a husband who doesn’t carry a gun and disappear from time to time. And at her age—I’m being indiscreet, and I must apologize—there’s a certain urgency in these matters.”

  Ackerman nodded. “The ticking clock, yes, I think we all know what you’re up against.” He looked around. “Anybody have any brilliant ideas for reassuring Charlie?”

  “Wait. There is one last reason.”

  “By all means.”

  “The last reason is also the first one I gave you. I am not an assassin.”

  “Hold on, Taras,” Buck Jones said. “I thought we pretty much defused that one. This is just semantics. Why not just call it ‘chief of security’?”

  “But that is not a very accurate job description, Mr. Jones. You told me the KGB wants me to hunt Marcus down, to ‘assassinate the assassin.’ Is that not so?”

  Jones hesitated. Ackerman spoke: “Answer him, Buck.”

  “Okay, yes. Hell, I should have paraphrased, but those were the words they chose. They’d like you to stop him—before he gets to Rybkin. This Marcus is a killer, you said so. But if you do find him, if it’s a matter of conscience, I’m sure you can detail some of their people to pull the trigger.”

  Arensky shook his head. “Practically speaking, Mr. Jones, I don’t think Marcus Jolly can do this thing, nor do I think I can stop him from doing it. The odds are against on both counts. But that is beside the point. The point is, whatever Marcus may have done, or may have become, he was for many years my closest friend. And I do not wish to be appointed his executioner, no matter the cause.”

  After a moment the President turned to Dr. Ledbetter. “Gene, what was their other inducement?”

  “Immediate exit visas for Taras’ sister, her husband and children.” Ledbetter turned to Arensky. “If you agree, no matter the outcome, they will all be heading west.”

  Taras swore violently. His sister Luiza, her husband and their two little boys had been petitioning to emigrate for years. And year after year Taras had been filing State Department “Invitation for Relatives” forms on their behalf. All to no avail.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t believe these fucking promises.”

  “They’ll be put on a plane—in the custody of our embassy people—before you take off for Moscow.”

  “Bastards!” Taras pounded his fist into his open palm. “Excuse me, Mr. President. May I stand up?”

  “Christ, yes. Pace the floor, swear all you like. God knows, I do. Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you.” Taras stood. Walked to the French doors. Stared out through the colonnade at the lighted Rose Garden. The President’s voice came from behind him.

  “Taras, I understand your reluctance to accede to any kind of blackmail from the Kremlin. So let me offer you an alternative reason. You’re now a U.S. citizen. As your President, I’m asking you to take this assignment. Consider it in that light, in any case.”

  Taras did not react. He was seeing faces out there in the night. Faces of people he loved. Charlotte. Marcus. But the faces that lingered were those of Luiza, Anatoly, and their boys, Vladik and Sashka—as he’d last seen them five years ago on a wintry Moscow morning. How much had they suffered, especially the boys, for his sake; how much had been denied them? Luiza had told once him on the phone how terribly they were ostracized at school, how they had been forced to write compositions denouncing him. What diminished prospects remained for them in young manhood as nephews of a traitor to the Motherland?

  Couldn’t he, for their sakes, compromise his self-image a little, at least go through the motions of a morally repugnant assignment? Even if it cost him his integrity as a man—dammit, even if it cost him his soul—wouldn’t it be worth it?

  As his conjurings faded, Taras found himself looking, through the trees of the sloping south grounds and the Ellipse, at the floodlit spire of the Washington Monument on the Mall. A shining symbol of his new homeland, like this oval room in which he stood. He turned around.

  “I accept, Mr. President.”

  Ackerman offered his hand, then placed the other on Arensky’s shoulder. “I won’t ask you which argument prevailed.”

  “Thank you. When does all this start?”

  It was Buck Jones who answered: “There’s an Air Force jet at Andrews gassed up and ready to leave for Moscow as soon as we can get you on it. Your temporary reassignment is all cleared with Langley, but, for obvious reasons, we ask that you not tell anyone what you’re doing or where you’re going.”

  “Especially, you mean, don’t tell my fiancee?”

  “I’m sorry,” the President said.

  Taras shrugged. That was to be expected, considering the nature of the assignment. But even confronting the Kremlin bosses in Moscow was g
oing to seem easy compared to the next part—facing Charlotte.

  Five

  Taras was packing in the bedroom of the condo they shared in Cleveland Park when he heard her enter the front door. He continued tossing shirts, socks and underwear into the suitcase as her heels came clicking down the hardwood hallway.

  “Taras, what’s going on?” her voice called ahead. Then the footsteps stopped. “Oh, God, please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

  He turned and saw her in the door frame, square-shouldered in her festive six-hundred-dollar dinner suit. In her eyes naked appeal mingled with deep sadness.

  “Charlie, I—“

  “Please tell me you weren’t really going to sneak out of here in the middle of the night without… without…”

  “President Ackerman asked me to go somewhere, Charlie.” He laid in a favorite cotton pullover, a birthday present from her. “Tonight. Right away.”

  “Scotty asked you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since when have you two been on speaking terms?”

  “Since an hour ago. Though I guess I do work for the man. I told him no. But… he bent my arm—“

  “Twisted, not bent. He’s very good at it. That’s how he got where he is.”

  “—until I said yes.”

  “Obviously. Is it dangerous?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So, that’s all I get to know? Did Scotty swear you to absolute secrecy, especially in regard to moi?” She came slowly forward, dropped her purse on a side chair, took a flat-footed, cross-armed stance regarding him. It was her “tough newswoman” pose, Taras knew, but her vulnerability showed through in the distressed flickering of her eyes. “Were you going to stick a note on the fridge, or was I to be left totally in the dark?”

  “I was going to write a note, Charlie. If I could tell you more, you know I would. We’ve been all through this.”

  “Yes, haven’t we?” Her voice was low-pitched, jagged with barely controlled emotion. “I tell you everything I do, make a mockery of journalistic ethics, and you tell me nothing. For God’s sake, do you think I’m probing for a White House leak? I’ve got gobs of material for columns. I’m asking as the woman you share your bed with, the woman who wants to share your life. Please don’t shut me out, Taras. At least tell me how long you’ll be gone.”