A Sound of Freedom

by Walter Grant

  One of the microchips implanted in the soft tissue under Jack Johnson’s clavicle, was an electronic beacon in the super-high-frequency wavelength. The device was limited to a range of no more than a hundred yards and required a supersensitive receiver to detect, but, still powerful enough to permit KGB Agents in the U.S. to remain alert to his whereabouts. The KGB agents knew where the Ambassador lived and if they should lose track of him all they had to do was wait near his apartment; fortunately for the KGB Harte lived alone.

  The other device, capable of being detonated by remote control, contained a lethal poison similar to curare, but more deadly. At the first hint of a double-cross, or perhaps shortly after his speech in front of the U.N. General Assembly the device would have been exploded, releasing the poison into his system. The case could than be made that the ambassador had been silenced by the CIA or some other governmental organization. Perhaps a scheme had been devised with false documents already in place to implicate the president. At any, rate Jack Johnson had been expendable. This came as no surprise to Max, the KGB considers everyone expendable, as the Communist Party slogan, coined by Emma Goldman, an American anarchist deported to Russia in 1921 for her active involvement in Communism, suggested, as she wrote of Lenin’s strategies: “The end justified all means.”

  Max smiled, thinking how a song, made popular in his teenage years by Bob Dylan, more accurately echoed present-day times in the Soviet Union: “The times they are a-changing.”

  In the hands of the true masters of deceit eight years was a long time, so Max wasn’t bothered that his friend had not trusted him a hundred percent, had the tables been turned he would have done exactly the same. How could he be upset, even for a moment, with a friend who answered his call for help, provided a new identity, and as it turned out, actually saved his life? Jack Johnson had had no intention of following the prescribed KGB plan. Had Henri not been there watching out for him the KGB agents assigned to observe and report on Jack’s movements and actions would have informed their bosses back in the Kremlin of any sign of a double-cross. Should there be even a question of Jack’s loyalty to the Communist Party the KGB elite would have made sure there would be no naming of names. Orders would have come down to the agents monitoring Jack and they would have exploded the microchip sending the poison into his bloodstream. This became evident when the alleged kidnappers leaked to the press in Beirut that Ambassador Harte, obviously confused and disoriented, was claiming to be a victim of mistaken identity.

  The entire charade, simple as it may have been, worked flawlessly. Jack Johnson had been kept in the hospital until a CIA surveillance team identified known KGB agents from the Russian embassy keeping an around the clock vigil near the hospital. Everything had been made as easy as possible for them to pick up the signal generated by the microchip they believed to be implanted in Jack’s body. Actually the tiny devices, embedded in shockproof material inside a small box made from plastic used for the construction of radomes, sat on a table by an open window in an empty room, empty except for the men watching the nearby streets via video cameras and television monitors. Once positive identification of the KGB agents had been made, Ambassador Harte, after a short speech and an equally short question and answer session with the press, left the hospital in a government-chauffeured limousine.

  The papers had been full of the Ambassador’s intended trip, including departure time, so there were no surprises when the limo headed for Andrews Air Force Base. The unsuspecting Soviet agents followed, but lacking the proper clearance to enter the air base watched as the limousine turned off the road and passed through the main gate. The two spies were obviously convinced that David Harte departed as advertised. However, only the microchips in the pocket of a CIA operative boarded the airplane; Jack Johnson went home with Henri Tosi.

  A couple of weeks after the fake kidnapping, the location where Harte was supposedly being held reached the KGB via a double agent in the GRU—a branch of the KGB concerning itself with military intelligence gathering. This GRU agent was under the control of the Central Intelligence Agency. When it had been established the Soviets had setup surveillance near the kidnapper’s alleged hideout and were once again monitoring the signal from the microchip transmitter, the news of Harte’s reference to mistaken identity was released. The media speculated the ambassador had probably been tortured and was delirious which accounted for his confusion. The media had a way of making a lot out of nothing.

  Fewer than forty-eight hours passed after the first broadcast before the device containing the poison exploded. Starting twenty minutes later the power supply for the microchips was slowly cranked down and then turned off. The signal from the transmitter faded slowly at first, than ceased entirely, shortly afterwards the KGB agents packed up and left, hopefully, to report their mission accomplished. Neither David Aaron Harte nor Jackson Jefferson Johnson would ever be heard from again, and Maxwell Alexander Kayne was born a free man at age 37.

  Sherry, awaking from a long and restful sleep lay unmoving, her well tanned body golden in the rays of the late-afternoon sun filtering through lace curtains covering the sliding glass door that opened onto the patio. Like a cat she stretched leisurely and slowly kicked free of the covers. The last few hours before sleep came were still fresh in her mind; she rolled to the center of the bed and reached across to the other side only to discover she was alone. She opened her eyes and was surprised to find she had slept almost twelve hours. Walking slowly through the house she found Max asleep in another bedroom. She hesitated for a moment or two, resisting the urge to crawl into bed and snuggle up against him, before continuing into the kitchen where she picked up the telephone and dialed a local number. The phone rang only twice before it was picked up at the other end. The conversation was brief, a mere thirty seconds. A few minutes after she replaced the receiver back in its cradle a helicopter lifted off from North Vandenberg and headed south.

  Returning to the master bedroom she showered, first hot and than cold. Stepping from the shower, it occurred to her the only clothes she had with her were the cammies she wore the night before which lay soiled and wrinkled in the bottom of the clothes hamper. Searching through the bureau drawers she found and pulled on a T-shirt that came down to mid-thigh. Looking at herself in the mirror she shrugged. It wasn’t all that flattering, but it was a lot less revealing than the minidresses she had worn in the past. She stopped at the door to the bedroom where Max slept and stood watching him for a few seconds before walking back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

  “I should have known.” She said to herself, “Junk food, I’m going to have a hard time retraining that man.”

  Max, oblivious of time, had sat on the patio recalling episodes in his life and contemplating the future. The sun had climbed well into the sky, its warming rays probed the patio, knocking down the early morning coastal chill, and drowsiness began to overtake him. So as not to disturb Sherry he chose another bedroom, pulled the covers back, and eased into bed. His sleep was deep, his dreams were pleasant, and he awoke relaxed and rested. Neither the traffic to and from what remained of Gilbird’s house nor the helicopter touching down and still parked in the turn-a-round at the end of the road had disturbed him. The first sounds to reach his ears were men’s voices, muffled and indistinct, floating through the open door of the bedroom. He walked quietly to the master bedroom. Sherry was gone, her dirty clothes were still in the hamper and the Beretta lay on the table where she placed it when they arrived sometime after midnight. He picked up the Walther and an extra clip from the top of the bureau, eased back out into the hallway and moved silently towards the voices. As he neared the living room he recognized Henri Tosi’s voice. Anxious to see his old friend he relaxed and walked out of the dark hall, crossed the living, and entered the dining room, where Sherry was pouring coffee for two men setting at the table. Max approached Henri from behind and was about to speak when the man sitting opposite him looked up from the forms and papers he was carefu
lly arranging in a single stack. Max froze in his tracks, more than thirteen years had passed, but he still recognized the man, and for a moment he was a marine sergeant just introduced into the company of a General; his heels clicked as he snapped off a smart salute. The General stood up, returned the salute, and extended his hand. “I should be saluting you son, welcome home.”

  Max stepped forward and shook the General’s hand.

  “Or maybe I should say welcome to the family. My daughter tells me she intends to marry you.”

  All three men turned and looked at Sherry. Her face turned red, almost matching the color of her hair. She opened her month to speak, but before she could utter a sound the general put his arms around her and she hid her face against his shoulder. “And my daughter always gets what she wants, at least that’s been my experience; I’ve certainly never been able to refuse her anything.”

  “I doubt that I shall either, Sir.” Sherry pulled away from her father and almost knocked Max off balance as she rushed into his arms. Looking into her shining eyes, only inches from his, he asked, “Does this mean you accept?”

  She didn’t speak; she only smiled and tightened her arms around his neck as she buried her face against his chest. “Do you approve, Sir?”

  General Boaden laughed and extended his hand again, “Congratulations, son.”

  Sherry pulled away from Max and kissed her father on the cheek. Thanks dad, you’re the best.”

  Henri Tosi leaned back in his chair and looking at each of the trio one after the other, shook his head and stated: “I’ve witnessed some strange things in my life, but this has to be one of the strangest. I’m not exactly sure of what just happened.”

  Henri pointed to everyone in turn as he sorted it out. “The best I can figure is he proposed, she accepted, and you gave your blessing. If that’s the case,” Henri stood up and extended his hand, “I’d be honored to be your best man.”

  Max grabbed Henri’s hand. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Laughter and more hugging followed Henri’s comments. Only a few seconds passed before he asked, “Okay, if that’s all settled can we move on to some serious matters?”

  “You always were the sentimental one, Henri.”

  Sherry’s teasing brought one last round of laughter that quickly dissolved into solemnity.

  Henri continued, almost as he had over thirteen years ago with the first words Max ever heard him speak, as he asked, “Shall we get started?”

  The debriefing was recorded on tape, to be transcribed later and took the rest of the day and the better part of the night. General Boaden climbed back in the awaiting helicopter and departed after about two hours, but not before presenting Max with a gift he never expected.

  A service or an organization often claimed that it took care of its own—yet it was difficult to find evidence to support such claims. In one case at least, an exception had been made. Jack Johnson was gone forever, but had he remained in the marines he would now be able to retire with full benefits. The pension and benefits would have been lost, except for the efforts of General Boaden. Great care had been taken to create a file on one Maxwell Alexander Kayne, complete with duty stations, promotions, and citations. Anyone desiring to check the personnel files in the army’s central computer would find Colonel Kayne was honorably retired at the end of twenty years of service, and was now living in San Diego, California; Max would be forever grateful.

  He was grateful also, for the marriage proposal the general so quickly and easily solicited for his daughter, otherwise he might still be contemplating the question, waiting for the right time or place or still fumbling for the appropriate words.

  The honeymoon, emulating a dream, had been long and beautiful carrying them from desert island beaches to remote mountain tops. They traveled in motor homes, cruise ships, and high flying jets, hiked wilderness trails, canoed wild rivers, and climbed glaciers; neither Max nor Sherry had ever been happier. But now an uninformed observer might wonder what chilly wind had extinguished the flame that only days ago had burned so intensely it spilled over and warmed others. The aura previously surrounding the lovers had vanished. They sat in the observation lounge of a river cruiser without speaking or touching or even looking at each other.

  The moment Sherry feared most was rapidly approaching. The fear was not for her except perhaps in a selfish way. She had known, even before they were married, this day would eventually arrive, Max had made it absolutely clear, but she had locked it out of her mind. Now, that day had arrived and if anything went wrong she would never see her husband again.

  Her fear began when they boarded the cruise ship in Leningrad and continued to grow with every passing day until it was almost unbearable. From Leningrad the ship crossed Lake Ladoga and followed the river Svir into Lake Onega, then turned south via the Volga Baltic Channel, passed Goritzky, continued on across Lake Ribinsk, entered the Volga again at Uglich, and now it was turning into the Moscow Channel.

  The Intourist bus, complete with guide, was waiting dockside to take the tour group to their hotel. Next morning a welcome breakfast, compliments of Intourist, started a three-day tour packed adventure for the tour group; everyone was excited except Sherry. She feared the worst.

  Max was excited in a different sort of way, but the first three days were filled with boredom and time dragged by ever so slowly for him. He had seen Red Square too many times already, as well as the Faberge egg collection in the State Armory. The circus and the folklore shows were interesting, but he had seen them many times over. Little had changed. Finally the time arrived he had been waiting for. He skipped the ballet for obvious reasons—many a night he had sat in the Bolshoi Theater and watched Lara dance. Only party members, their guests, and tourists normally can get seats to the ballet and opera. High-ranking state officials with their own private boxes were regulars. On occasions when these state officials were unable to attend, escorts would be arranged for their wives and girlfriends. In years past Captain Jack Johnson, officer in the KGB, defector from the imperialist west, was continuously in demand. These women liked being seen on the arm of the young American and enjoyed his conversation over dinner; some of these women demanded more of Captain Johnson than dinner. Actually, this worked out very well for Jack, tickets were hard to come by for junior officers, so in return for an evening talking about movie stars and Hollywood lifestyles, he was able to watch the beautiful and talented Lara dance, enjoy gourmet dinners at private tables behind closed doors through which only generals and members of the politburo passed and occasionally pick up a bit of information to send back to the CIA. He would have liked to see Lara dance one last time, but he was too familiar a face at the Bolshoi, even after plastic surgery he dared not take the chance one of his previous escorts might spot him; they had a habit of watching the tourists through their opera glasses.

  Now the waiting was over, he began to tingle with excitement; adrenaline was flowing at an ever increasing rate. Tomorrow morning at six o’clock his tour group would board an Aeroflot flight to Helsinki and it would all be over, his promise fulfilled. Several times in the past few days he had considered aborting his plan and forgetting about it entirely because of the anguish he was causing Sherry. They had discussed all of this before they were married and she had agreed; now he was thinking it too selfish of him to cause her so much grief, but he had come too far and the window of opportunity was closing. Even so, two hours earlier he told her he was calling it off. Sherry desperately wanted him to call it off, but fearing, if she agreed, it might come between them sometime later, insisted he continue as planned. However, she did agree to board the plane without him if he failed to return. Whether or not she would, Max didn’t know. After tonight it would be finished and they could return to the life they had shared for the past year, in a world where nothing mattered but the two of them and their own happiness. He knew even as the thought entered his mind it could never happen; they were both dedicated to the same cause, and that cause would always put the
m in harm’s way.

  Henri Tosi knew it also; his parting words had been, “By-the-way Max, how’s your Arabic?”

  Muscovites weren’t any different from the inhabitants of any other city on a Saturday night. Young people were out, mostly in groups, looking for discotheques, moving from one to another or standing in line to get into one of the more popular clubs. Older couples and sometimes entire families stroll through parks and along streets, going from nowhere to nowhere. The streets aren’t crowded, but a lot of people are out moving about, and with the exception of street venders hustling tourists, no one paid much attention to anyone outside their own group. Max did not fear being stopped or questioned; only a senior officer would ever question the purpose or intent of anyone wearing a Lieutenant Colonel’s uniform with the dark blue trim of the KGB. Full Colonels and higher ranking officers, having their own state-issued cars and drivers, would not stop to check on an officer whose uniform was perfect in every detail. Even if they should, his identification would pass anyone’s scrutiny, and he knew State Security well enough to satisfactorily answer any questions they might ask. Any junior officer stopping him on the street would receive a dressing down he might very well remember for the rest of his life. The uniform Max wore had been purchased, for a souvenir of course, on the black market in Leningrad. The ID had been supplied by Henri Tosi.

  The brightly lit Smolensicaja Metpo, clean and modern with marble halls, chandeliers, and gleaming mosaics was more like a museum than a subway station. The underground was one of the Communist showpieces. Max joined the crowd on the platform and moved, as was expected of a KGB officer, to the front as people moved aside. The station on Marx Prospekt, across from the Moskva Hotel, had a great deal more activity than other stations; this was part of his plan. It would be even more crowded in a couple of hours at which time he would change into dinner clothes, exit the station, cross the street, and walk along Gorky Uiltza to the Bolsohi where the Intourist bus would be waiting to return his group, now attending the ballet, to their hotel. Max would mix with his tour group as they left the theater. Sherry would slip the ticket with the section, row, and seat number reserved for Max by Intourist into his pocket; the ticket would bear the proper validation marks proving Max attended the performance. If the need should arise, enough of the group would remember he was on the bus, and the state tour guide would certainly recall his generous parting gift. Yes, it would indeed end well.