She looked at him, smiled knowingly and responded, “I would say so, yes.”
“Comrade Valeri, you do look lovely tonight.” Karpov had returned and tried to insert himself between Pyotr and Valeri, but Pyotr quickly extended his arm around Valeri, forcing Karpov to her other side. “Thank you, Colonel,” he said, “I think my wife looks lovely, also.”
Valeri nodded appreciatively to her husband for reading her thoughts. She then thanked Karpov, sensing that Pyotr might have overreacted to the Party leader’s attention to her.
“You are a lucky man, Comrade,” Yuri said to Chernakov, again visibly appraising Valeri. “Come and let me introduce you to the American Ambassador and his associate.”
Karpov guided them toward a man with iron gray hair in evening attire chatting with one of the young women from the ballet. His mannerisms were clearly American or so Chernakov thought. He smiled easily as did the other man with him, a tall man about 35 with a carrot-colored hair and freckles; Karpov identified him as William Jacobson, the Embassy Public Affairs officer.
Seeing Karpov, the young woman they had been talking with quickly moved away as Karpov approached with General and Mrs. Chernakov. It was not wise to be seen enjoying the company of the Americans too much, especially in the sight of the KGB Colonel.
“Ambassador Joseph Harding and Mr. William Jacobsen, I would introduce you to General Pyotr Chernakov and the General’s wife, Valeri Chernakov,” Karpov offered officiously.
As Chernakov was shaking Ambassador Harding’s outstretched hand, he leaned close to Valeri and whispered attentively in her ear, “Darling, follow my lead,” as he next shook Jacobsen’s hand.
Ambassador Harding said pleasantly, “Did you enjoy the performance, Mrs. Chernakov.” He was impressed by Valeri’s beauty. The lines of her blue gown were simple and tasteful and she wore very little jewelry, only a small necklace with matching earrings and a wedding ring. Her shining black hair was pulled into a smooth chignon and her wide blue eyes under dark brows and lashes, lit up when she answered him.
“Oh, yes, it was thrilling, Mr. Ambassador,” she said in almost perfect English. “My husband and I are not too often able to attend, so it is a great pleasure when we can come. And you, Ambassador Harding, do you enjoy the ballet, too?”
“Americans always enjoy your Bolshoi and I cannot attend as often as I would like either, Mrs. Chernakov.”
Valeri turned toward Pyotr just as his arm bumped William Jacobsen’s hand holding a full glass of champagne, spilling it on Jacobsen’s jacket sleeve.
Taking out his handkerchief before Jacobsen could reach for his own, he offered apologetically, “Oh forgive me, Mr. Jacobsen, how unforgivably clumsy of me,” he said as he was attempting to wipe Jacobsen’s sleeve.
Jacobsen said, “Here, let me do that, General.”
Pyotr nodded and looking directly into Jacobsen eyes carefully pressed the handkerchief into Jacobsen’s hand. Jacobsen felt more than the handkerchief, but continued to dab his sleeve. His eyes acknowledged that he understood and said casually as he placed the handkerchief in his own pocket, “Everything is fine, don’t worry about the coat, it will dry.”
After further polite conversation, Chernakov and Valeri thanked him and then moved away to enjoy some of the food, trying to appear at ease. Karpov had observed the accidental spill and he moved close to Valeri and commented, “I saw the little accident, Comrade Valeri, it’s too bad.”
Her heart froze with fear at the possibility of discovery, but she responded cautiously, “Yes, Colonel, it is so embarrassing.”
“No, no, Comrade, I mean it is too bad to waste such good champagne...on an American,” he laughed.
“Oh,” she said smiling, “how clever of you, Colonel Karpov. Perhaps you are right.” She sighed with relief as she watched him move away to talk with one of the young ballerina’s.
While Pyotr was speaking with another officer across the room, Jacobsen sought out Valeri. Handing her the handkerchief, he said, “Thank your husband for me, Mrs. Chernakov. I don’t see the General, right now, but as you can see,” offering his sleeve, “it hardly shows,” and under his breath he said, “we understand and we will be in contact.”
Pyotr appeared at her elbow. Jacobsen reiterated, “It’s quite all right, General, and I just returned your handkerchief to Mrs. Chernakov.” To Valeri, “I understand that you work at the Lenin Museum, Mrs. Chernakov.”
“Yes, I am there three days a week.”
“Perhaps I will see you there one day. We often have visitors at the embassy, and occasionally we have an opportunity to show them some of the points of interest of your city.”
Colonel Karpov had once again joined the General, Valeri and Jacobsen and overhearing part of Jacobsen’s remarks commented, “We are always pleased to show Americans true Soviet history and culture.”
Pyotr touching Valeri’s shoulder spoke quietly, “We must say goodnight, Mr. Ambassador, and Mr. Jacobsen, and I apologize again.”
“It’s quite all right, no harm done as you can see, General Chernakov. It was a pleasure meeting you both and I hope we meet again.”
✽✽✽
At the embassy in Ambassador Harding’s office, he and Jacobsen read the message so carefully inserted in Chernakov’s handkerchief. The words were few.
We wish to defect. Please help us
Harding sat behind his desk shaking his head and stroking his chin while pondering the startling message. “Chernakov of all people! Do you believe him?” he asked Jacobsen incredulously.
Jacobsen was pacing and paused; after a minute he nodded and said thoughtfully, “Yes....yes I do. He took an incredible risk tonight. It could be very risky for us, but on the other hand Chernakov and his wife could lose much more, they could lose everything.”
“We must make our next move very carefully,” Harding said ponderously, “if true, it is a very sticky situation and it’s going to take some very careful planning, otherwise, it could trigger a major international incident.
We need more than a one time contact with the General.”
“That’s right, we do,” Jacobsen agreed, “and that won’t be easy. Karpov hardly let them out of his sight tonight, the slimy toad,” he said derisively. “My guess is that the KGB is never far away from Chernakov.”
“Bill, you’re scheduled to go back to the U.S. next week,” Harding spoke thoughtfully. “When you get there, call Langley and get with Fred Wellman. Also find out who Wellman would tap at State to help. We don’t want any one in the White House or the Pentagon getting wind of this. Leaks in the White House are too common. You don’t know who to trust over there anymore and there are people in the Pentagon that are just as bad. Some of them would sell their own grandmothers to tip an advantage in their direction. We dare not in any way jeopardize the Chernakovs.”
Jacobsen responded, “How about Neil Klein from State’s Office of Intelligence and Research? He has worked with Fred Wellman; and he’s certainly not a fan of the administration and I trust him.”
Harding agreed emphatically, “Yes, I think Klein could be one to head this up if he would. You try to set it up and work with Klein and Wellman. Let’s call it Operation Redwing. I want you back here by October 30th.”
✽✽✽
Ten days following the ballet, Chernakov was sent to Havana, Cuba to evaluate the Soviet military presence there and observe the technical (intelligence) personnel.
Moscow wanted to make certain that Chairman Castro knew of Chernakov’s presence and the importance of his visit to the newly acquired Soviet island satellite under America’s nose. The propaganda value would not go unnoticed.
Valeri had not been well and Chernakov was concerned. He did not relish leaving her even for a short duration under such conditions, but she insisted that she would be fine until he returned.
Over the next few weeks she developed a persistent cough that would seemingly get better and then worsen again. She had lost weight and each day at
the museum her duties seemed more difficult as she led tours through.
When Chernakov returned to Moscow on October 12th, he found Valeri in bed, with a severe cough and a high fever. Valeri was hospitalized under the care of Doctor Vassily Nakhimov a friend and schoolmate of Pyotr’s. It comforted Chernakov to know Vassily was treating Valeri. He was well regarded as a physician and he was someone Pyotr knew and trusted.
Dr. Nakhimov told Pyotr that Valeri was fighting a particularly difficult strain of viral pneumonia that antibiotics would not help.
He prayed as he sat by his wife’s bedside and reflected on his time in Havana. The climate there was mild and pleasant in contrast to the cold damp weather of Moscow. Perhaps Cuba would be a place better suited to Valeri’s recovery. Havana was not perfect, but if it meant his wife would get well... Perhaps he should speak to Karpov about a longer assignment to Cuba.
Over the next few days Chernakov thought of little else other than Valeri’s well being as he considered the harsh winter facing them.
His thoughts were interrupted by Vassily who motioned to him from the doorway of her room. He followed the doctor to a small alcove. Turning to Chernakov, Nakhimov said wearily, “Your wife’s condition is worsening, Pyotr; I have done every thing I can do. I am sorry, old friend; all we can do now is wait.”
Pyotr nodded numbly. “I know, I know,” he said slowly and to himself, “It’s in God’s hands.”
It was the night of the seventh day Valeri had been in hospital. As he sat by her bed holding her hand silently praying, he could feel her life ebbing away. She opened her eyes and trying to smile spoke weakly, “Pyotr, take the next step. I love you. Our Father,” she began, but her words were fading and Pyotr leaned forward to kiss her and whispered, “Which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name....”
He had finished the Lord’s Prayer with “Amen” she sighed softly and was gone. Like a little bird her spirit had flown, he thought. His Valeri was now with God but his heart was broken at the loss, huge sobs wracked his body. Together they had prayed for a peaceful passing and it was so-but his beloved wife—what would he do without her?
October 25, 1967
At the American Embassy the activity level mirrored an anthill or so William Jacobsen thought as he made his appearance outside Joe Harding’s office on this morning. The Ambassador had finished dictating a memo and summoned Jacobsen in. “Good to have you back,” he said eagerly. “How was your trip?” Harding’s question waited for more than a traditional “Fine,” as he rose to close his office door.
Jacobsen smiled nodding an affirmation. Harding pressed the button on an intercom, “Hold all calls; now, Bill, tell me where we are.”
“We have a deal, Sir. As it turned out, Klein had just returned to Washington a day or two before I arrived. We met with Fred Wellman, who was cautiously excited at the possibility and both men were uniform in their estimation that this would be an incredible coup.
Klein agreed to handle the project; his and Wellman’s initial reaction was that it will be very risky and difficult to accomplish since we need to have access to both parties at the same time and place and Chernakov’s high visibility by itself is a major obstacle. We must make another contact. What’s been happening here?” Jacobsen asked.
“I’m told Chernakov left for Cuba a few days after the ballet. He got back a couple of weeks ago, but nobody has seen anything of him or his wife,” Harding said thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s time for a trip to the Lenin Museum to soak up a little of Karpov’s Soviet culture; what do you think, Jacobsen?”
The next afternoon a small group of the embassy staff accompanied William Jacobsen on a cultural visit to the Lenin Museum with a Russian speaking tour guide.
Upon making inquiries about Madame Chernakov, Jacobsen was stunned when told that Valeri Chernakov had become very ill and had died in hospital one week ago. The group continued the tour and returned to the embassy with a shocked William Jacobsen in tow.
Ambassador Harding knew immediately something was very wrong as a shaken Jacobsen entered his office. After absorbing the bad news, Harding walked to the window and looked out and then sadly exclaimed, “That lovely lady; what a shame! What a damned shame!” he repeated. “How could we have missed this? What about the General? Where is he? We must send condolences, but carefully. Since we don’t know officially, we’ll have to do it through the museum.”
While Harding was talking Jacobsen had been thinking; “Well Sir, this changes the scenario; now we only have to plan for one,” he said soberly.
January 15, 1968
Chernakov’s loneliness and grief was magnified; there was no one with whom he could share his feeling of loss or his faith. He had received a note of condolences from the American Ambassador Harding, hand carried and previously read by Karpov. It said little, but was rich in evidence of the underlying care of the American and the note had been hand written.
He knew that there had been no formal notification of Valeri’s death, but it meant much that the Ambassador had somehow learned of it and had taken the time to contact him. What was it Valeri had said? “Take the next step.” Chernakov’s heart was torn. Yes, he wanted to be in the company of people who were not afraid to move and speak without fear of reprisal. Now it seemed not as important without Valeri.
And yet she would want me to continue with our plans, he thought. But how? He would have to wait in uncertainty.
✽✽✽
January 20, 1968
Chernakov had been informed that he was being sent to Nanning, China to negotiate for the release of two Soviet technical advisors who had been arrested and were being held on charges of spying. The assignment had come from the Defense Ministry at the request of the Central Committee through Karpov. He knew it was made on the basis of his prior working relations in this particular district. He knew also that his government and China continued to be mutually suspicious of each other’s military intentions.
The border clashes with China were occurring more frequently in the Far East and the Transbaykal Military Districts. The numbers of Soviet ground troops had been increased in those areas. Tensions were high since the evacuation of all nonessential Soviet personnel from Bejing following the riots of the Chinese Red Guards in early 1967.
China was demanding the withdrawal of Soviet troops from Mongolia. Chernakov was prepared for a cool if not hostile encounter in Nanning.
January 22, 1968
It was cold and snowing slightly when General Chernakov and his aide Major Alexei Sukhanov dressed in the regulation service uniforms under winter hats and overcoats boarded the four-engine turboprop plane in Moscow. Their destination was Nanning in Kwangsi Province, China. They moved to the rear of the plane where the vibration was less and Pyotr opened his briefcase prepared to work while in flight, as always.
He had prepared himself for the long flight, but the drone of the engines and the constant vibration seemed to penetrate every fiber of his being. He tried to concentrate on the task ahead, but Valeri’s face seemed to force everything else out of his mind.
Finally, he closed his briefcase and looked at his aide, Sukhanov, seated across from him. Alexei’s eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep, but as Chernakov set his briefcase aside Sukhanov’s eyes opened.
Chernakov felt an almost fraternal regard toward the young Soviet major who had been selected as his aide on his last assignment to Cuba. Since Valeri’s death he had come to rely on Sukhanov’s intellect and attention to detail at a time when Pyotr felt almost incapable of action. Sukhanov also possessed a rare gift among Soviet military...a sense of humor. It might have been that trait alone that helped Chernakov work through his acute time of grief.
“Aah, you’re awake, Alexei. It is good that you could get some sleep. We will be arriving in another few hours or so, I should think. Then we shall see what must be done to go about unraveling the difficulty with our Chinese comrades,” Chernakov stated wearily.
“Yes, General, and p
erhaps you should try to rest before we land.”
“Thank you, Major, I think I will wait and see what accommodations will be given to us tonight. By the way, we will probably not need these overcoats; the weather in Nanning will be much milder, about 35 degrees Celsius. It is almost subtropical; like Vietnam, but not as wet.”
Sukhanov commented pleasantly, “It seems strange leaving the cold and snow and in but a few hours to have it warm like Cuba. About the accommodations, it is possible, Sir, that the plane may be more comfortable,” alluding to the possible tension at the camp.
Chernakov nodded, half smiling agreeably, “Let us hope not.”
A car was waiting as they deplaned. They were driven directly to the building that housed the headquarters and the office of the Base Commander. Their papers were checked and finding everything in order they were escorted to the office of General Yang.
“General Chernakov,” Yang’s greeting was followed by an exchange of salutes. “Come in and please be seated.” Yang was a tall heavy set man with an erect bearing and neat black hair, wearing the drab Chinese army uniform. Chernakov instinctively knew that Yang was Mongolian. Yang smiled, but the suspicion in the sharp black eyes gave evidence that this man didn’t miss anything.
“This is my aide, Major Alexei Sukhanov, General Yang.”
Barely acknowledging the introduction, Yang directed them to be seated, but Sukhanov remained standing behind Chernakov’s chair. Yang moved to sit at his desk across from the two visitors, two guards flanking him.
He looked at Pyotr. “So, General Chernakov, I know you are here on an assignment for your country, how may I help you?” He lightly drummed his fingers on his desk.
“An impatient man,” Chernakov thought as he got directly to the point. “As you are probably aware, General Yang, I’m here to secure the release of two Soviet citizens, Vadim Andropov and Viktor Orloff. They are technicians who were arrested and are being held as prisoners here at this camp.”
While Rome Was Sleeping Page 2