Iron Dogs and Caesar's Ruby

by Dave R. Mortensen

  Kovpak had no ready answer. “I ... I think I would have looked for smoke from dwellings or encampments,” he said uncertainly then shook his head vigorously. “But no ... no, Anton. This is not possible. With my leg and my hip injured, how could I have walked this far?” he asked as he ran his finger across part of the map. “That would have to be nearly eight kilometers from the village.”

  Nuryev thought for only a few moments. “If you were injured you would not have been able to even get to the church from the crash site.”

  I must not have been that badly injured in the crash, Kovpak reasoned.

  “Uninjured, with the emergency supplies, you could have travelled eight, even ten kilometers a day,” Nuryev suggested. “General ... you had to have been hurt and found somewhere after this point.”

  He’s right ... there is no other explanation. “The nearest village is what? What is this?” Kovpak pointed to a dot Nuryev had placed along the road.

  “Ramazanovo,” Nuryev replied quickly. “At least it is not deserted.” He pointed to another dot. “This is only somewhat more established, it is Ibragimovo ... General, I believe something must have happened to you somewhere along this road,” he said with his finger pointing back and forth along the line. “Someone found you and took you to Ibragimovo. Or possibly as far as Kuvandyk ... here. There is a rail station, surely there must be an infirmary.”

  “Amazing,” Kovpak said, nodding with a slight smile. No one else will be able to put all this together, he told himself then his thoughts turned in another direction entirely. He gathered and rolled the charts and photographs together and got out a bottle of vodka and two glasses. “Come – sit, Anton.”

  Nuryev studied his friend, trying to discern what Kovpak had in mind. They toasted, “To the Motherland,” then what he heard next stunned him.

  “The rumors ... about another purpose behind the mission ... they were true, Anton – at least to some degree. On our four planes we carried something Comrade Stalin himself ordered to be secretly delivered to the British.” Watching the younger officer’s eyes widen he added, “Krylov confided in us that the British would mount an invasion of Europe because of it.”

  Nuryev could only stammer, “But, then ... Europe? How would they?”

  “He was wrong on only one point, Anton,” Kovpak said as if he were revealing a long-held confidence ... it was not Europe ... it must have been Africa.”

  Nuryev’s mouth opened as he remembered the early November invasion that forced Hitler to withdraw some of the forces fighting near Stalingrad; while he came to the same conclusion he suddenly had another thought. “General Leonov deliberately led him to believe it was Europe ... to conceal the real target.”

  Kovpak nodded in agreement. “A diversion. To mislead any spy that might come upon the plan.”

  “So now the question is, what was being given in exchange?”

  “It could only be something so secret that it was not trusted to anyone other than Leonov.”

  “Atomic secrets?” Nuryev managed to get out in a whisper.

  Kovpak took a drag on his cigarette and said flatly, “Perhaps ... I told Olnikov that the plane felt as if the wing compartments were empty. But, no matter what it is ... I want them to find the plane.”

  Nuryev shook his head and looked bewildered. “To find it? But—”

  “Without the cargo ... whatever it is,” the General added, looking squarely at Nuryev.

  As Kovpak explained his plan Nuryev came to understand why his friend had survived as a senior officer all these years.

  Eventually, when the time was right and with the General’s suddenly improving memory and directions, Olnikov would find the plane, only to discover the alleged secret cargo had been removed – or may not have even existed. Whatever plans Stalin had in mind for Leonov and anyone else associated with the mission would be stymied.

  “There will be no evidence, Anton,” Kovpak said. “Only you and I and Comrade Stalin will ever know the truth.”

 

  CHAPTER 20

  Calder Ranch, Texas, Friday, May 23, 1997

  Margaret Calder climbed the steps from her pool and began toweling off, then put on a lightweight robe and prepared to relax in a chair beneath the large umbrella. Her family would be at her home in another two hours along with Professor Kirkland – no sooner, she had insisted. Despite her excitement about the possibility of finding General Kovpak, she was not going to let recent events keep her off her routine. A half-hour swim every morning had been a significant part of her physical regimen for over twenty years and she had the stamina, muscle tone and figure of a woman nearly two decades younger to show for it.

  In preparation for the return of the Professor, she had gone to the garage to her husband’s bank of floor-to-ceiling tool cabinets. Inside one of them, among several old tool boxes was one containing an odd assortment of pieces of household hardware and a few cheap tools concealing a false bottom Cecil had painstakingly crafted. From that space she had removed their small treasure of remaining secrets – the only physical evidence of any connection to a prior life. Included in those were a few personal letters from Alexsandr Kovpak – under other names, of course. The last of the correspondence had come from Belgium just before the Calders moved from California to Texas. Nothing further had arrived since that time and over the years she had sadly assumed the move, or Kovpak’s likely passing, had permanently disconnected them.

  Even now, how Kovpak had known where to send the old letters and the recent anonymous packages—if they really were from him—was a complete mystery to her but she had collected all of their secreted items and laid them out on her dining room table, organizing them in chronological order as waves of emotion roiled through her.

  In addition to the handful of letters there were things among the collection they should not have taken out of Berlin or the U.K.: Two photographs from their wedding; some of the medals awarded to Anton Nuryev; a handful of their very early letters to each other. Then there were a few things from their travels, like the tickets for the train trip across America and a photograph of them in front of their first apartment – precious things that were not supposed to exist. If they were to be revealed, the elaborate process of establishing their new lives might be unraveled even after half a century.

  And now, with the family relying on Professor Kirkland, she felt almost relieved that someone might be able to find Alexsandr without endangering him.

  The cordless phone on the glass-topped table bleeped and she quickly dabbed at the moisture at her ear then picked it up. “Hello? Oh, hi, Hon ... No, but they will be in a coupl’a hours ... No, they’re at the hangar to meet your Professor ... Ah huh ... Okay, I will ... No ... Now y’all know I will ... Now, when have I ever not? ... I promise we won’t make him late ... Love y’all, bye,” she said cheerfully then set the phone down and relaxed with a smile on her face, intuitively coming to the conclusion her young friend should take every opportunity to get to know the man better. “He may be a Yank, honey,” she said aloud as if Catherine could hear still her advice, “but he’s a thoroughbred.”

  - # -

  Kirkland lifted the Transall off the south end of the Addison airport runway and soon turned to 156° to follow the Joe Pool Four departure route. With the brilliant sun almost overhead and no weather issues to deal with, Yamaguchi put in a Jeff Healy CD and they listened for a few minutes while watching the instruments and the sky for traffic as they climbed toward 23,000 feet.

  When his mind circled around to their more pressing issue Yamaguchi reached over, turned down the volume and said over the intercom, “We know all four boxes came FedEx customs.”

  Kirkland nodded. “Four cities not far from London.”

  “And your guess was right, they’re all from the same printer.”

  “Which means—?”

  Yamaguchi held up a hand and gestured with a circular motion. “Someone is printing the labels then driving all the way to somewhere
else to send them.”

  “I think you’re right, but don’t get the wrong idea ... it’s not that far. They’re all within fifty miles of downtown London.”

  Yamaguchi thought again then offered, “So they’re what ... just something to throw anyone who’s looking off the trail?”

  “That’s my guess,” Kirkland said without a lot of conviction. “I get the feeling I’ve been thrown off the trail.”

  With a brief nod Yamaguchi squinted in concentration and said, “Um. This is going to get strange,” then reached over and turned up the volume.

  - # -

  From a limb in a heavy stand of trees about a half-mile from the northwestern corner of Margaret Calder’s home, Dennis Boland scanned the area through binoculars and tried to ignore the nervousness in his gut. The little side-project he had taken on for Bailey in the previous year had been simple and reasonably rewarding, but now he was actually breaking the law overtly for a significant sum.

  For him, the timing of the surprise call was fortuitous; he had dodged a tax-scofflaw bullet or two but as the slow and ominous wheels of the IRS had begun turning, he knew he would lose his job if criminal charges were brought; based on personal experience, the company’s owner had no sympathy for people who dabbled in the tax protester movements. The calamity might be a few months or even a year or more away but he had decided some time ago his long-term future did not include living in Texas and working as a corporate security guard for a company that had contracts with the US government.

  The money offered was simply too much to pass up – particularly since it was cash. With what he had stashed away, he figured an additional twenty thousand was enough to set himself up in Panama running a tax-haven scam that could net him hundreds of thousands a year if he did it right. But, unlike most of the people following Roger Burnett’s business model, Boland wouldn’t thumb his nose at the IRS – he’d just make himself invisible to them. Burnett just didn’t get out of the country in time, he had repeatedly told himself. A few tweaks to the business model and life is good.

  Boland knew the layout of the Calder property as well as the floor plan of both homes from the blueprints used to design the security systems that had been connected to the corporate offices during the Burnett trial. And today, the surveillance he had conducted on the property for Bailey a year ago was paying off. Nothing has changed, he assured himself.

  Just before eight o’clock that morning he had watched Alex and Elanore Calder leave the ranch together in the boss’ Jaguar and now, with Margaret Calder turning slow free-style laps in her pool he decided to take his chance.

  After climbing down from the limb he hoisted two lightweight nylon gym bags over his shoulder and headed across the field of wild grasses, weeds and flowers at a steady jog. It was the better part of a half-mile but he was in reasonably good condition and had dressed lightly for the heat of the day. Just keep swimming, lady, he told himself.

  As he approached the northern perimeter of the Calder’s original fenced-in acreage, he crossed through a barrier of shrubbery then climbed over into the expanse of horse paddocks surrounding the barn. After catching his breath and watching from behind the corner of a horse trailer, he trotted to the back corner of the enormous garage then walked to the front and peeked around, seeing only the ripples of the woman’s wake on the pool’s surface as she swam away and disappeared from view.

  Dashing across the concrete between the garage and the back of the house, he arrived on the covered porch leading to the back door, breathing heavily from the run as well as sheer nervous excitement. Reminding himself of the need to do what it was he came to do, he focused his attention on the door and getting inside. Through the glass he could see into the mud room off the kitchen and further into a hall which he knew from the plans would lead him to the rest of the house.

  He didn’t bother with trying to be completely silent; a woman swimming at least fifty yards away wasn’t going to hear the sound of broken glass and he knew the alarm system well enough to notice the lights on the control panel showed it still wasn’t armed. He grinned in bemusement at the fact that while they were tied to the system at the corporate offices, the elaborate security systems at the Calder’s homes were rarely activated, especially during the day.

  A few seconds after punching through the window with his elbow he was inside, moving rapidly down the hall looking for the master bedroom and pulling a small metal detector from one of the bags. “Shit!” he whispered out loud as he failed to locate any hint of a hidden safe anywhere on the walls of the master bedroom itself or the large closets.

  Back out in the hall he began looking in various rooms, finally recognizing one that was obviously a man’s den. “Alright!” he said lowly as he saw what he had come for – a huge, dark-green safe. “Dude, you found it!” he whispered excitedly then practically sprinted toward the part of the house that led through the kitchen toward the pool, running right past the dining room where the collection of the family’s secrets were laid out.

  Standing at the sliding glass doors to the patio and removing a small revolver from the bag he said quietly, “Okay, Mrs. Calder, let’s find out just how good your memory is ... you have a safe to open.”

  He had no taste for violence, particularly when it came to women and especially for a woman as old as Margaret Calder, but desperation had gotten him this close to a better life out of the clutches of the Treasury Department and he wasn’t about to miss this opportunity to radically improve his chances.

  He froze when he saw that she had taken a chair under the umbrella and quickly stepped back out of potential view then glanced around the vertical blinds and saw her talking on the phone. When she set the phone down and leaned back in the chair he looked around and spotted the clock on the microwave: 9:57.

  Hoping the phone wouldn’t ring he slid the door open quickly and pointed the gun in her general direction as he walked quickly across the covered part of the patio and out onto the textured surface surrounding the pool.

  “Mrs. Calder!” he said loudly enough to make her jump and turn to see him. “Get up. Come inside ... now!” he ordered.

  Margaret Calder turned further in her chair and her mouth opened but she didn’t get up.

  “Mrs. Calder. Get up and come inside,” he ordered insistently, waving the gun. “Do not reach for the phone, Ma’am. Just get up and come inside. I’m not going to hurt you if you do exactly what I tell you.”

  Margaret rose slowly and somewhat unsteadily as her mind kicked in. Our papers! They’re all on the dining room table! “What do you want?” she said, her voice weak and her hands trembling visibly as she raised them and tried to think of how to keep the man from going back in the house. “How do you know who I am?”

  “Inside, Mrs. Calder. Do it now ... I mean it,” he said loudly, gesturing again with the revolver.

  As she shuffled toward the still-open door in obvious fear she asked again, “What do you want?”

  “Inside. The safe – and don’t give me any bullshit about not knowing the combination,” he said as he gestured toward the door.

  Margaret seemed to relax and she deliberately let her shoulders slump. She stopped and turned to face him and her entire demeanor changed. “Jesus Christ,” she said looking him square in the eyes with a look of pity that surprised him. Her voice softened and she tilted her head slightly. “If y’all need some money just ask, son.”

  Not expecting that kind of response Boland seemed baffled for a moment then blurted out, “Just open it!”

  Margaret looked up into the air above her and sighed in mock annoyance then she turned, stepped up through the open door into the kitchen and strode quickly to the hallway – away from the dining room, leaving him to have to almost jog to catch up with her.

  She acted as if she had caught a small boy pilfering a cookie jar, not an armed man trying to steal valuables. “Think Cecil kept a lot of money here?” she asked loudly with some disdain as she went quickly
down the hall then stopped abruptly and turned around as he approached, “I’m afraid y’all are going to be disappointed.”

  When she turned and continued to the door Boland trailed after her, even more bewildered at her seemingly fearless indifference.

  She walked into her husband’s den and without even looking to see if he was following behind her she asked, “This?” pointing as the man stepped further into the room.

  Boland nodded. He tried to make it sound like an order as he said, “Open it.” As her hand moved toward the handle of the large safe it dawned on him this older woman with an attitude just might have a loaded weapon inside. “No ... wait!” he shouted and raised the revolver.

  “Son, it’s not even locked,” she said flatly, leaning over then spinning the spoked wheel. “Here ... it’s too heavy for me,” she lied.

  Boland gestured for her to step back and she complied as she said, “He never locked it,” then she moved behind the large desk chair to the left of the safe. “It’s insured. Go ahead ... take what you want.” Her voice turned firm as she added, “Then get out.”

  He stepped closer, pulled the heavy door open and looked at the contents of the safe: Several long guns, some of them that looked more than just expensive; no locks on the drawers; a few shelves with pistol cases on them; no ammunition and nothing looked like he would have expected to contain documents. “Where are they?” he asked pointedly as he turned to look at her. “Files ... old records, letters ... things like that?”

  Margaret managed to avoid looking confused. “In the valise. The leather one, laying there in the bottom,” she instructed almost impatiently. “All his old stuff is in there.”

  When Boland bent further over he saw what looked like a large, old-fashioned soft-side briefcase toward the back of the safe. As he reached in and touched it he heard an odd “whooshing” sound and suddenly an incredible pain erupted at the base of his skull. Unconsciousness prevented him from hearing the groaning noise he made as he collapsed in a heap.