Without any clerical or secretarial assistance he was forced to wait in his office for the responses and he was surprised how quickly the call from Podpolkovnik (Lt. Colonel) Mikhail Vitolkin’s aide came.
The Air Defense unit Vitolkin commanded was not much more than an hour away by car while the crippled Vladmir Bochkov’s care center at the coast of the Black Sea was several days travel from Moscow. The third survivor, Polkovnik (Colonel) Alexsandr Kovpak, was even further away in Berlin.
He decided to start with the closest man.
- # -
Vitolkin’s small office was austere to the point of being purely functional and until Olnikov passed the orders from Stalin to the officer there were a number of inconvenient interruptions; the document had the desired effect – Vitolkin issued an order to his aide and then escorted the agent through the office building to a large, vacant briefing room in the adjacent hangar.
After closing the door he said quietly, “We should keep our voices down,” then took out a cigarette and lit it before he sat down at one of the tables.
Olnikov nodded in agreement. “I understand,” he said then sat across the table from the Colonel and lit his own cigarette.
Vitolkin’s mind was reeling but he seemed relaxed despite the significance and source of the man’s orders. “This is obviously an urgent matter, Comrade.”
After exhaling the smoke upward Olnikov began, “You are correct. It is. Your mission ... the one in nineteen forty-two, to England ... there are only three of you left.”
Vitolkin’s brow furrowed as he scowled. Only three? He managed to remain visibly calm while the onslaught of trepidation made his gut tighten and his mouth dry. Secrets and oaths, he reminded himself and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “The mission ... it was,” he paused and shook his head and glared at the agent with a firm determination. “It was not a matter to be discussed.”
“Until now,” Olnikov advised.
Vitolkin rubbed his chin briefly then leaned back in his chair. “Very well ... what is it the First Secretary wants to know?”
“Everything, Comrade. Everything you can recall ... there are no records of that brief period of your career ... no documents remain at all. It is safe to say that situation was planned for. It is now necessary to gather the facts of the matter.”
Vitolkin nodded only slightly as the fear of what might be the real reason behind this investigation gripped him. Secrets and oaths he reminded himself several times as he began recounting their clandestinely-arranged training in England, their return via the Arctic Sea route and finally Krylov’s briefing at Smolnya. He consciously avoided any mention of their becoming aware of the real purpose of the mission.
“And that was when? You were in Leningrad when?”
“September,” Vitolkin answered.
Olnikov wrote something more on his pad of paper then Vitolkin continued, explaining their staggered departures from Smolnya and his aborted flight out of Ufa and awaiting the navigation charts Kovpak was supposed to have sent to continue the mission.
Seeing the puzzled look on the agent’s face Vitolkin explained, “We did not carry charts ... navigational maps. Only the four element leads knew the waypoints ... the details. The first waypoints were all different for each element – secrecy was that vital. Other than knowing we were eventually going to Tehran we had no way of knowing how we were getting there.”
Olnikov scowled with a doubtful look. “Really?”
The Colonel nodded. “It’s far too great a distance to make in one flight, Comrade. The petrol, the glycol ... even the hydraulic fluid had to be in place, waiting for us. Only the leads had been briefed on them.” With his hand making a hopping gesture across the surface of the table he added, “Once in the air we were given the heading and distance to the next destination and so on.”
“Why do you think Kovpak did not send to you ... what was it you said ... ah, you waited in Ufa?” Olnikov asked. “For the ... the charts,” he noted from what he had written.
Vitolkin looked somewhat surprised. “You do not know, Comrade?”
Olnikov didn’t react. He took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled then offered some advice. “Assume I know nothing, Colonel.”
Vitolkin fought the urge to smile as he said more than asked, “Ah ... you probably have no way of knowing ... Major Kovpak never reached Tehran.”
Now it was Olnikov’s turn to appear surprised. This could be a stroke of good fortune, he told himself. “But he is still alive ... that means he must have taken the plane somewhere else.”
The almost excited tone of the man’s statement led Vitolkin to a sudden conclusion: They’re looking for Kovpak’s plane! After a moment he shook his head dismissively. “I doubt that, Comrade ... after he did not arrive in Tehran, General Krylov told me they located him in hospital in Chkalov but offered no information as to why ... other than that he would recover ... and as ordered, we had no further communication. None of us have discussed this since that time.”
“Chkalov? Could he have taken the plane there?”
Vitolkin regarded the stranger with some distrust, but knowing he had no choice but to provide an answer he shook his head. “Unlikely in a fighter aircraft. That would be too far west. And being hospitalized would indicate to me, at least, that he was involved in an accident of some kind.”
Olnikov seemed to be confused. “But where was he going, if not Chkalov? He was lost between Ufa and where? You said Aqtobe?”
Vitolkin nodded. “Where the fuel was arranged. And, I should have mentioned, there were mechanics at each waypoint. Had any of us gone somewhere else our planes could have been stranded. But more importantly, Comrade, going to other aerodromes would also jeopardize the secrecy of the mission.” He leaned forward on the table and picked up another cigarette but didn’t light it. “In Ufa we wired General Krylov’s office asking for charts and they were delivered to us two days later. When we finally got to Aqtobe we were three days late ... only then did we learn he had not arrived there. General Krylov would know more, of course, but, as I am sure you know, he was killed in a tragic accident.”
Olnikov sighed and nodded then crushed out his cigarette. But Kovpak is not.
Vitolkin tapped the end of his unlit cigarette on the table and reached for his lighter as he continued with his story. “We were dispersed to training units approximately three months later. I know Kovpak was in a training command ... the last time I saw him was ... ah, I cannot recall now. Of course, we never spoke of the mission – he may know more,” Vitolkin added then lit the cigarette.
Olnikov nodded in thought for a moment then asked, “How far is it from Ufa to Aqtobe?”
They really are looking for the plane! Vitolkin concluded and decided to be less than fully forthcoming, in part to buy time to find a way to forewarn his friend. He squinted and pursed his lips in thought. “I believe about seven, perhaps eight hundred kilometers. The Airacobra will not fly much more than eleven hundred kilometers safely. But with the proper charts that would be simple to determine. If I recall, we were thirty minutes into the flight when we encountered the Luftwaffe reconnaissance planes ... after we drove them off Surin had to turn back with propeller damage. Not long after I also had to return to Ufa. I was leaking fuel and would not have made it to Aqtobe.”
“And Kovpak continued ... alone.”
“Those were our orders,” Vitolkin said simply.
Olnikov now realized he had what he needed to report back to Stalin; better yet, with the actual pilot of the missing plane still alive, the task of finding the plane had probably become enormously less difficult. “Well, Comrade ... you have saved me a considerable amount of time ... Comrade Stalin will be made aware of your cooperation,” he said as he rose.
Vitolkin wanted to verify some of his concerns about what the secret mission had actually been designed to accomplish but with an apparently satisfied agent drawing the questions to a close he thought better of it; yet
another reorganization was underway in the Kremlin and allegiances were going to be tested. The less I know the better, he concluded as he rose. “If you see Colonel Kovpak, give him my regards ... is he still in Berlin?”
“He is,” Olnikov said pleasantly. And if I see him I will do that.” After a few seconds he added, “Of course you will not discuss this with anyone.”
As if it should be obvious Vitolkin said, “Of course.”
After escorting the agent to the exit he returned to his office and began pondering some way to get word to Kovpak without endangering either of them. Secrets and oaths, he thought again.
CHAPTER 16
Calder Ranch and Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997
Alex Calder walked over to the dining room table where Kirkland was seated with the packing boxes and their contents arrayed in front of him. “I know you need to be in Dallas tomorrow, but you’re welcome to stay for dinner.”
Kirkland quickly nodded. “I appreciate that, thank you.” He was concentrating on the box he had taken the tobacco tin full of diamonds from.
Looking closer as he sat down in a chair across the table Calder asked, “Find something?”
With a frustrated shake of his head Kirkland said, “Umm. I don’t think so ... this one, this is the one that had the diamonds. I was hoping it had been opened and resealed before it got here.” He set the box down and leaned back and ran a hand through his hair then seemed to stare at the box as if defeated. “But I don’t believe it was.”
Calder looked puzzled. “You’re saying someone along the way might have found out what was in it? What am I missing? Why wouldn’t they just take them when they found them?”
Kirkland appeared to wrestle with a thought then leaned forward with his arms resting on the table and intertwined his fingers. “The only place that provides an opportunity to discover what is inside something like this coming into the country is the customs broker.”
It dawned on Calder slowly. “Ahh ... they x-ray them.”
“Only some of them. Why they pick the ones they do is a closely guarded secret, and those that get x-rayed are routinely opened if something looks suspicious.”
“That means it would never have gotten here if someone had seen or opened it.”
“Maybe,” Kirkland advised. “It’s far too secure an environment for someone to simply steal the contents, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He paused again then leaned back from the table. “No, if someone had seen this and then opened it, what would have been here at your Mother’s place were men in dark suits and ties with no sense of humor they’re aware of.” As his client seemed to grasp what he meant, Kirkland looked around again and continued in a voice barely above a whisper. “Smuggling diamonds is a bad idea ... these got through unopened by sheer chance.”
With a sound understanding of statistical theory Calder said, “Not much of a deterrent.”
“Still, it’s certainly not a method I’d recommend,” Kirkland said flatly.
Calder sighed and leaned his elbows and forearms on the table. “What about the odds of finding General Kovpak?”
Kirkland shook his head and gestured to the boxes and papers on the table. “There’s a message in here,” he said. “Somewhere.”
- # -
After dinner Kirkland followed Alex Calder’s map of the ranchlands and the Houston-area freeway system, all the while trying to refocus on the following day’s business for another client in Dallas but he found it more difficult than normal to concentrate for multiple reasons, not the least of which was Catherine Cruz.
After reaching the Transall parked at Ellington field and securing the Suburban in the cargo hold with Joe Bonamassa blaring from the plane’s sound system, Kirkland closed the rear door then climbed the steps up into the cockpit where the music was even louder. Knowing better than to startle Ben Yamaguchi within physical reach he knocked loudly on the bulkhead and yelled, “You’ll go deaf, you know!”
When the music dropped to background level Yamaguchi smirked, “I wondered what was taking you so long to get it tied in ... I was about to come down and supervise.”
Kirkland ignored the comment. “Sorry I’m late ... what’d you do for dinner?”
“I found a sushi bar – I was surprised how good it was. There’s some ika and kaiso in the fridge—”
Kirkland raised a hand. “No, thanks ... I had grilled salmon and something with black beans and corn and peppers and something called jicama—”
“Hiccawhat?”
“Yea ... sort of like a, a ... a sweet radish ... maybe. I thought you were going to find that fried chicken steak—”
“Chicken fried steak,” Yamaguchi corrected then donned his headset and asked the tower for permission to start the engines.
After getting his own headset into place Kirkland commented, “Chicken fried steak ... that just sounds wrong.”
“So does fried chicken steak.”
Kirkland realized there would be more things he would have to ask the natives about. “It makes no sense,” he noted as he strapped in and adjusted his harness.
“Hey, you do realize we’re in another country.”
They both heard the permission to start and Kirkland picked up the checklist. “Yea ... what is it with the sweet iced tea?”
Yamaguchi grinned as he started the first engine then they proceeded through the checklist and soon had both props spinning noisily. When satisfied everything was as it should be, he asked the tower for permission to taxi which was quickly granted; at that hour of the night they had the field almost to themselves and were soon rolling on a north-bound takeoff.
Flying out of Ellington Field at night in the crowded airspace around Houston required frequent guidance by air traffic controllers and the two men said little to each other until they had been handed off to the Fort Worth regional center. Yamaguchi leveled off at 20,000 feet, watched as Kirkland adjusted the power and trim settings and relaxed as he poured some fresh coffee from the thermos. In less than an hour they would be busy again, descending and blending into the heavy Dallas-Fort Worth traffic on their way to Addison airport some 250 miles to their north.
The adopted infant son of Jewish bookstore owners, at the age of five Benjamin Epstein had become Ben Yamaguchi as a result of the divorce and remarriage of his mother. He eventually learned his biological lineage included a Japanese grandmother but he looked neither Japanese nor Jewish; for one thing, at just over six feet he was too tall; he also had green eyes. Despite the constant name confusion he had excelled in school and had become, among other things, an Air National Guard Captain with thousands of hours in military air-cargo planes – including the venerable C-130 Hercules.
His civilian life had taken a radical change in 1991 when one of his martial arts gakusei learned of his military service. The relatively new student, Michael Kirkland, approached him and wanted to know how to go about bringing a French military cargo plane from Europe to Long Island. What he was looking for was someone who could not only obtain a rating quickly and be the pilot-in-command for the ferry trip, but then get Kirkland, a fairly experienced private pilot, a commercial rating for it.
Yamaguchi’s formal education had been centered on mechanical engineering and aviation but after transitioning from the Air Force Transportation Command into the New York Air Guard he had decided to support himself and his wife and first child with a combination of martial arts instruction at his own dojo while flying freight aircraft and various charters on an annoyingly irregular basis.
When Kirkland explained what his business involved and how he wanted to expand it via the new cargo plane, the younger pilot had also just learned another child was due and he jumped at the chance to have not only a substantially larger and more steady income, but to learn something about a business he hadn’t even known existed.
It wasn’t long before the job became a family affair. His wife, Terri, was now in charge of running the administrative and financial side
of Kirkland’s unique operation. The small family lived in the large, elaborate guest residence on the Cove Neck property.
Even when not using the Transall, Yamaguchi would almost always travel with Kirkland, invariably being introduced by his boss as “my associate,” without alluding to the fact that his role included physical protection. A master sensei in multiple martial arts disciplines, his visible role sometimes involved nothing more than looking at something he had no clue about and confirming with a nod whatever Kirkland had just said. Part of that was on the job training; part of it was also for show. Only a few clients had the temerity to wonder aloud how his surname didn’t seem to match with his Caucasian appearance.
The fact that he also got to not only use, but tinker with and adapt some very interesting technology also tapped into his innate understanding of how to make things work – sometimes in applications where they hadn’t been intended, let alone tried. Kirkland’s collection of such things sometimes gave them an advantage in their peculiar business environment and Yamaguchi had two patents to his credit; more importantly, other bits and pieces had saved their lives in tight spots.
Now in the moonlit skies above the cloud layer blanketing most of south Texas, Kirkland filled him in on everything that had transpired during the day.
“Holy shit,” Yamaguchi said after considering what he heard about the Calders and the story behind this new client. “So they have four pieces – real Romanov pieces? Sent by this General guy ... and they, as in we, don’t know where he is.”
“Three genuine pieces and a fortune in loose diamonds – and we don’t even know who he is today. He was apparently taken in by the British. Same drill as the Calders, new name, new life – but in the U.K. ... we think.”
“And somehow, this guy got out of the Soviet Union with the missing fourth of the De Beer’s collateral.”
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