Rasputin's Legacy (Cold War)

by Jackson, Lee

  As a midlevel field operator, Ivan was under constant watch, as was normal for Soviet intelligence officers. Even in his apartment he could not feel alone with his thoughts.

  At Chewys, he could think of home, and pretend he was free. That he could take such liberties was a testament to the high regard his superiors held for his political reliability, buttressed by the holy hell that would be visited on his family should he defect.

  The cozy furnishings and atmosphere were exactly the quality that had kept Ivan coming back. He stopped at the bar to order a beer, and made his way to his regular table at the rear, greeting familiar faces as he went.

  A smattering of people he had not seen before were spread about the room. He gave them quick scrutiny. Just don’t be paranoid, he chided himself as he took his seat and continued his observations. Satisfied that he could set aside concern for a time, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out one of Louis L’Amour’s novels from The Sacketts series.

  He enjoyed books about the “Old West.” He read them when assigned to the US as a means of picking up small talk and colloquialisms. From them, he learned of the rugged individualism that permeated American history. The idea that people could determine their own lives was contrary to his education.

  He sat back and contemplated the notion, and sighed. If only I could bring Lara and Kirill here. But he knew that could never happen.

  His mind went to last year and his involvement with the Atcho-Yermolov matter. That had been distasteful. Caught between two factions within his directorate, he had heard of a possible assassination operation, but had had no idea that it had been directed at General Secretary Gorbachev.

  Only a year before, he had reached a level of clearance that allowed him to know that a Soviet mole resided deep within the US military establishment. He had been as shocked as anyone to learn that the mole had been General Yermolov in the guise of Lieutenant-General Paul Clary of the US Air Force.

  As Clary, Yermolov had risen to become one of the foremost nuclear armaments experts in the US. His depth of knowledge had been counted upon during negotiations with the Soviet Union for Reagan’s Strategic Arms Reduction Talks.

  By a twist of fate, Ivan had been paired with a Cuban he knew as Atcho to chase down the rogue general after the failed assassination attempt. It had culminated in Atcho’s stabbing the fugitive general in the chest during hand-to-hand combat on a sultry moonlit airstrip just outside of Havana. And here we go again. Ivan grimaced.

  He took a sip of his beer, and found his place in The Sacketts. He tried to become engrossed in the story. Concentration became difficult.

  He felt tension rise as thoughts intruded about the phone call he had received a week earlier, after midnight. As was his habit, Ivan had stayed up late reading news stories related to his intelligence cases to gain context. He had barely dozed off when the phone rang.

  “Major Chekov. This is General Yermolov. Do you remember me?”

  Shocked, Ivan sat up on the edge of the bed. His muscles tensed. “You were reported dead.”

  The general laughed. “I assure you I am very much alive.” He used the long-practiced northeastern accent of Paul Clary. His disembodied voice mocked while it commanded. He gave Ivan very explicit instructions. “I need you to keep tabs on Atcho, and report to me all of his activity.” Lest there be any reluctance to comply, he left a parting taunt: “I’ll have my men look in on Lara and Kirill to make sure they are safe.” He gave Ivan a telephone number for keeping in contact. It looked like it might be from Paris or the surrounding area.

  When he hung up, Ivan sat in a cold sweat. He dared not refuse to comply. Yermolov’s threat to his family was plain and deadly.

  The next day, Ivan made quiet inquiries about Atcho. That evening, while Ivan placed listening devices in Atcho’s apartment, his heart pounded when Atcho came home earlier than expected. Fortunately, Atcho’s shot had just grazed his shoulder. The only information Ivan had gained in the interim was that Atcho had boarded a plane for Denver the morning after their encounter. He had returned to DC overnight, and then left for Austin without returning.

  Now Ivan sat in Chewys, nursing his beer. Frustration rising, he tucked his book back in his coat pocket and prepared to leave.

  Two other men were paying their tabs ahead of him. He waited, and then took care of his own. As he stepped through the door, a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and jerked him outside. He whirled and prepared to fight. Another set of arms encircled him and forced a cloth with a sweet-smelling substance over his nose.

  Ivan blacked out. The two men who had been ahead of him looped his arms over their shoulders and dragged him into the night.

  * * *

  The old nuclear physicist peered at his handiwork under the lamplight in his workshop. It appeared to be a small rocket, barely eighteen inches long, but minus fins or any guidance system. He picked it up and placed it diagonally in a briefcase. It fit snugly among packing material and an external control panel.

  Satisfied, he placed a carefully prepared cover of sheet metal over it, on which the shape of the rocket had been etched for easy orientation. He connected some wires, secured the control panel and a digital timer, and pressed a test button.

  Five minutes later, he placed a call. “It’s functional,” he said when the phone was answered. “Tell me when to deliver it.”

  Chapter 11

  During the three days that Atcho surveilled the “Rasputin group” house, he noticed a pattern. The young couple carried a steaming stewpot through their front door to put in the trunk of their car. Then they drove off.

  On the third night, he called Burly. “Nothing much to report,” he said. “All I’ve seen is a young couple taking something somewhere in a stewpot, but they seem to do it every day. I’ll follow them tomorrow. By the way, I haven’t heard from your courier.”

  “He’ll be there the day after tomorrow. He’s picking up a piece of equipment for you, and had to wait until it was ready.” Burly would provide no other details.

  The next morning, Atcho rented a car to continue his surveillance. When the couple went through their regular routine, he waited. As they started down the street, he followed.

  They drove through back streets of Paris until they neared the edge of the city. Then they maneuvered onto Paris’ beltway, crossed a bridge to the opposite side of the River Seine, and proceeded into the countryside.

  Thick traffic assured Atcho that he drove undetected. The couple entered a town, turned off the main road, and stopped in front of a tavern. Atcho parked nearby. Moments later, a man approached the couple’s car, spoke through their window, and indicated a blue sedan. Within minutes, the couple transferred the stewpot to the second car, and it pulled away.

  Noting which way the second car turned onto the main road, Atcho waited until both were out of sight, then pursued. A mile farther on, he saw the blue sedan, and hung back far enough to remain unnoticed. It continued out of town a few miles, turned abruptly onto a dirt road that crossed a wide field, climbed a steep slope, and entered a forest on the hilltop.

  Atcho cursed. There was no way he could follow unobserved. Since he was completely unfamiliar with the terrain, waiting until dark was no solution. And if Yermolov or his men were there, security would be airtight, and probably included night-vision devices.

  The sun sank on the horizon. Atcho would have to wait at least until tomorrow. Dismayed, he drove back to Paris.

  Late that night he called Burly.

  “We have Ivan,” Burly said. “We’ll keep him sedated.”

  “What will the Soviets know?”

  “Nothing. They’ll see personal items from a burned-out car with a corpse no one can identify. County officials have the body. It’s a John Doe from a local morgue. The teeth are under tight security.”

  “I guess that’s good. Won’t the missing teeth raise suspicions?”

  “Yeah, they will. But that’s a calculated risk. Hopefully, by the time they be
come an issue, you’ll be done.”

  “Right.” Atcho let his tone carry his skepticism. “Get Ivan here as quickly as possible.”

  “He’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. I’m sending him on the Concorde. That’s the fastest way. Took string-pulling to work.”

  “Fine. What about Sofia?”

  Burly responded with reluctance. “She’s still loose. We think we know where she’s been, but that’s not much help.”

  Atcho’s voice was tinged with ice. “Tell the president I’ll stay five more days. If Sofia isn’t found by then, I’m coming home.”

  “I hear you loud and clear,” Burly’s tone became cautious, “but has there been any progress?”

  “I might have found something significant, but I’m not sure.” He relayed the information about the young couple delivering the stewpot to the blue car, and the hilltop in the countryside. “If you recall, in that book about Rasputin, it mentions that his followers revere his fish soup concoction. I’ve smelled whiffs of fish soup when they carry that pot out.”

  Burley made a dubious noise. “Sounds a little far-fetched, but if you get a positive sighting on Yermolov, I can order a raid to go in there and get him. The French will cooperate, but it’ll be tricky. No one wants the French countryside to turn into a combat zone again.”

  “I’ll try,” Atcho replied. “My guess is that after that sighting by the CIA guy, Yermolov’s keeping his head down.”

  Burly grunted his agreement.

  “When’s your courier coming?” Atcho asked.

  “He’s still scheduled to be there tomorrow night.”

  “And you can’t tell me anything about it?”

  Burly’s silence answered the question. They hung up.

  Late the next afternoon, Atcho went to the airport. He located the gate through which passengers exited customs, and sat to wait. Soon he heard an announcement that the flight had arrived.

  Minutes later, people streamed through the portal. As the crowd thinned, Atcho saw Ivan pushed out on a wheelchair by an airport service aide. He wore the clothing Burly had specified, and he appeared listless.

  Behind the aide, two men walked together in conversation. One was very attentive to Ivan and appeared to be his escort. Atcho looked closer, and was pleasantly surprised to see Rafael Arteaga, Atcho’s Bay of Pigs comrade and the man who had arranged Ivan’s disappearance. Atcho was about to rise to greet them when he glanced at the other man with Rafael—and froze. The man was Tony Collins.

  Dumbfounded, Atcho watched as the attendant moved Ivan beside a row of seats in the passenger lounge. Collins sat next to Ivan while Rafael looked around.

  Atcho wondered how long they had been together. He hoped that the journalist had been a coincidental helping hand to bring Ivan off the plane, and nothing more. He wanted to be rid of the man, and quickly.

  He went to a phone booth, called the operator, and conversed in low tones. Then he returned to his seat. Moments later, a female voice announced over the public-address system, “Mr. Anthony Collins, please call the operator for a message.”

  Atcho watched Collins go to respond to the page at a courtesy phone across the lobby. Then he crossed rapidly to where Rafael stood. Seizing his arm, he murmured, “Let’s go!”

  Startled, Rafael stared at him. Then, recognizing Atcho and sensing his urgency, he gathered their bags. Atcho pushed the wheelchair, and they headed into the crowd. Not until they were in the rented car speeding into the city did Atcho relax. Then he looked across at Rafael.

  “What a surprise seeing you. That was close. Do you know who that was helping you?”

  Rafael shook his head. “I had trouble getting Ivan into the wheelchair. That man offered to assist. I didn’t get his name.”

  “He’s a reporter. I’ll tell you all about him.” Ivan sprawled lifelessly on the backseat. “What did they drug him with?”

  Rafael shrugged. “I injected him with some stuff Burly gave me.” He grinned. “You have the pleasure of speaking with Dr. Lazaro Diaz, oncologist extraordinaire.” He deepened his voice in mock seriousness. “I traveled all this way to provide my patient with specialized care.” He looked curious. “What’s going on? Burly wouldn’t tell me much. I agreed to do the job because you asked.”

  “Thanks.” Atcho glanced at his friend. Rafael approached mid-fifties and looked fit, with a deep tan and silver hair.

  “You’re always trouble for me.” Rafael grinned. “You drive a tank into my position with everyone in Cuba shooting at you, then you get me involved in an assassination. When are you going to let me just run my real estate business?”

  Atcho filled him in.

  Chapter 12

  Collins was puzzled. The message from the operator on the courtesy phone instructed him to call his editor in DC. Having done so, he was informed that no one from his office had called. He returned to his seat and was dismayed to find his bags unattended. Neither of the men he had helped off the airplane were in sight.

  He gazed about, perplexed. Whoever had placed the courtesy summons knew that he would be in the airport. Furthermore, he had not been gone from his luggage long. Why would a man who had exhibited courtesy abandon the luggage of someone who had helped him?

  The thought crossed his mind that Atcho might be involved in a deliberate diversion, but that seemed too much of a stretch. Collins knew nothing of Atcho’s travel, and was sure Atcho had forgotten about him. Collins had come to Paris on a long-shot notion of finding a link between Atcho and the Rasputin group, but the odds of encountering him here in the airport were remote.

  He sat a few more minutes reflecting on his efforts to interview Rasputin’s biographer since last speaking with Atcho. The only item in the book Collins’ researcher thought might be relevant was a reference to a religious sect in Paris. The story interested him only as something marginally connected to Atcho. He pursued it simply to leave no stone unturned.

  After he had returned to Washington from Austin, Collins had read through the chapter. He was skeptical, and called the author. She was courteous but firm in her insistence that she would provide no information beyond that contained in her book.

  “I wrote about Rasputin, not the group,” she said. “Those are good people. I mentioned them peripherally. I didn’t want anyone bothering them. Why so much sudden interest?”

  She told Collins the same thing his editor had said, that someone else had called asking questions on the same morning that he had flown to Austin.

  “How about if I fly out there?” Collins asked. “We want to do a human-interest article on Rasputin.”

  The author was having no part of Collins’ curiosity, and turned defensive. “It’ll be a useless trip, but I can’t stop you.”

  In a mild effort at charm and intimidation, he flew to California and presented himself at her door. She refused him entrance. He turned on all his persuasive ability. Nothing swayed her.

  He might have ended the Rasputin investigation there but for a car parked in shadows down the street from the author’s house. It seemed peculiarly placed, away from any driveway and under trees providing heavy shade. Two men sat in the front. When Collins drove by to take a closer look, they slouched low in their seats. His curiosity was piqued. A surveillance team?

  He called the Washington Herald bureau chief in Paris, explained what he wanted and was promised cooperation. Yesterday, when he arrived back in Washington, DC, he received a reply.

  Although little was known about the religious group, it was based in Paris, and an address was available. He thought a quick trip there might resolve that loose end. Either he would find a more direct link to Atcho, or that part of the story would fizzle.

  He booked the earliest flight to Paris aboard the Concorde. He had been seated near an invalid under the care of an oncologist traveling to Paris for specialized treatment, and was happy to help move the patient off the jet. Now he wondered, What doctor travels with his patient?

  Chapter 13

 
; At the time that Collins arrived in Paris, Sofia was ensconced in a farmhouse in northern Virginia’s rolling hills, with rent prepaid in cash for two months. She had altered her appearance, and her hair now fell in frizzy, artificially gray-streaked strands.

  As her efforts to learn of Atcho’s whereabouts failed, initial concern turned to anger, and then fear for him. A call to Burly had been disheartening. A day after confronting him in his apartment, she called him from a phone in a bar far out in the country. When they spoke, he was evasive, and his questions were subtly targeted to discover her location.

  In frustration, she hung up and called other associates. None had useful information, but all invited her to lunch or dinner, or wanted to know her whereabouts. Obviously, she was being sought. What did you expect? You’re a senior intelligence supervisor.

  Sofia had found her own refuge along a country road near Washington. Somberly, she contemplated the way she would probably spend Christmas—much different than she had planned.

  She curled up on a hard sofa before a meager fire, her hands wrapped around a mug of brackish coffee, and stared out a bare window at a bleak sky. Her throat constricted; her eyes brimmed.

  “Where are you, Atcho?” she whispered. Her mind drifted to the events that had brought her to this place.

  Sofia had been barely out of high school when first approached by the CIA. She had been accepted into Yale on a linguistic and music-dance scholarship. Her father had been a diplomat, assigned to various embassies around the world, so she had been neither surprised nor put off by the recruitment.