by David Archer
Anya blushed. Short and chubby, she had never heard the word lovely used to describe her before, but the little part of her that lived deep inside encouraged her to take it while she could.
She was a good investigator, however, and had been in his unit for a little over a year. Officially, she was listed in his Table of Organization as an intelligence analyst, because of her encyclopedic knowledge of the cultures of other countries. Fedorov had quickly learned that she was capable of using that knowledge on the fly, and often called her in when investigations took an international turn.
She was also his choice when it was necessary for someone in his unit to deal with foreign police. Anya had become invaluable in that regard, and he had changed the T/O to reflect her job title as his “Intercultural Coordinator,” and she was adept enough that many international callers now asked for her by name. Some of them seemed to think that she was working for them, rather than for the FSB.
“It’s a fancy title,” he had told her at the time, “but all it means is that you can deal with the calls from police in other countries. They give me a headache, so I’m dumping them on you.”
He gave her his attention, now. She had a tendency to come up with things that were important, and he had learned to trust her judgment.
“I came across something I thought might help,” she said. “I was looking at the photographs of the arrested spies and one of them looked familiar to me. I ran him through our facial recognition system, but nothing came up. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling I had seen him before, so I've been thinking about it all day.” She smiled suddenly. “About twenty minutes ago, it struck me that I had seen the man when I was a patrol officer stationed at Sheremetyevo. That was just before I came here, about a year ago, so I went back through some of the old files of cases I had worked on out there, and stumbled across this.” She leaned forward and laid a freshly printed eight by ten photo on his desk.
Fedorov picked it up and looked at it, and then he suddenly sat forward in his chair and began to stare at it in earnest. “Where did this come from?”
“Do you remember the situation with Nicolaich Andropov? He was a powerful man in the SVR until it was learned that he was running a rogue operation.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Fedorov said. “He was stripped of his authority and rank and fled the country. He was brokering information at one point, but then he became obsessed with the man who killed his son. If I remember correctly, that man killed him, as well.”
Anya nodded. “That's correct, sir,” she said. She pointed at the photograph in his hand. “That's a photo of the man we suspected of being an American assassin at that time. It appears that it was he who killed Vasily Andropov, son of Nicolaich. This photo was taken as he arrived in Moscow. We only noticed him because he was greeted by a man from the American Embassy, but he was the only American to fit the description given by the survivors.”
Fedorov stared at the photo for several seconds. “I wonder, Anya,” he said, “if you realize just how great a discovery you've made. This does appear to be Mr. Winston, it’s quite obvious. However, that would mean that he has acted as an American agent before, which could help us to prove that these are not Russian agents after all.” He got quickly to his feet and pulled on his jacket. “Come, Anya,” he said. “We must go and see Leschinsky immediately.”
Anya’s face lit up. She hurried back to her own office to get her jacket and met Fedorov at the front door, then followed him to his car. She smiled when he opened her door for her.
The late afternoon traffic slowed them down a little bit, but Fedorov got there in good time. When he went inside the front offices of the Lefortovo prison, he was met at first with resistance, but he had always known how to command obedience and respect. The staff member who tried to dissuade him from seeing Colonel Leschinsky quickly ran out of arguments and let them pass.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Leschinsky was in a foul mood. His boss, Ivanov, was crawling all over him to get to the bottom of whatever was going on with the suspects, and yet he was not allowed to use any of the normal tactics for extracting information.
“I've been ordered to move them,” he said after he stopped being angry about the interruption. “The president seems to be concerned that someone may wish to kill them while they're in custody.”
“More than you?” Fedorov asked. He ignored the glare it got him. “I want to show you something,” he said. “Anya has found something very interesting.” He passed over the photograph and Leschinsky grudgingly turned his eyes to it.
He looked at it for a moment, then looked back up at Fedorov. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”
Fedorov’s eyes grew wide. “Isn’t it obvious? That photograph was taken more than a year ago, of the man suspected of killing the son of Nicolaich Andropov. I find it interesting that it's the same man you currently hold under the name of Samuel Winston.”
Leschinsky looked back at the photo. He tilted it to get better light, with his head thrown back so that he could look through the bottom of his bifocal glasses. After almost a minute, he looked back at Fedorov.
“I see a resemblance,” he said. “Our Mr. Winston, however, is taller than this man. Look at the poster in the background, it should appear lower. There’s no way this is the same man.”
Fedorov grinned. “Leschinsky, you old bear. Do you hope to claim the credit for this discovery to yourself? I've spent enough hours with Winston to know that this is him. Since he is already known as an American agent, it's simply beyond the realm of possibility that the story of his being a Russian sleeper could be true. This is the evidence you need to break the story, but I'll not have Anya cheated of the recognition she deserves for finding it.”
Leschinsky scowled at him and handed the photo back. “It's not the same man,” he said. “You may try to convince someone else, if you wish. Until you do, and someone gives me orders other than those I've already received, I shall proceed to move them somewhere safe.” He turned and walked away.
The grin had vanished and Fedorov was stunned. He looked at the photo again, just to reassure himself that he had not imagined what he’d seen, but there was still no doubt in his mind that he was looking at a picture of Samuel Winston. He started to speak, to call out to Leschinsky, but Anya put a hand on his arm.
“Please, let’s go,” she said. “If he refuses to see the truth, then it means it's a truth that someone does not want exposed. Let’s go, let’s just forget this.”
“But…” Fedorov said, but Anya put a hand to his mouth to silence him.
“Please? Please, this frightens me,” she said.
Fedorov looked down the hall where Leschinsky had gone and saw him speaking with another man. That man turned his face to look at Fedorov and Anya, then looked back at Leschinsky.
“I think you're correct,” Fedorov said. “Let’s go.”
They left the building quickly and went to his car, and were back on the street only a minute later. Fedorov was quietly ranting, letting out the anger that was building up inside himself at the knowledge that the truth was going to be covered up again. Anya was quiet, looking around from time to time to see if they were being followed.
A car had appeared behind them and Anya was watching it closely. It was staying at a steady distance away, even when Fedorov slowed or sped up, and this was making her nervous. She turned to look at Fedorov, to tell him that they seemed to have someone following them, but she never got the words out. Her eyes grew wide, but then the freight truck ran into the driver’s side of Fedorov’s car.
The big truck was moving a lot faster than the speed limit. When the sedan flipped over, the truck bounced upward and continued right over the top of it and somehow managed to keep right on going.
The sedan rolled three times and finally landed on its roof, which had been smashed flat. People who had been standing on the street ran over to see if they could help whoever was in the car, but they stopped and stared instead.
/> There was a bloody mass hanging out the driver side window. It took a moment for the onlookers to realize that it was probably what was left of someone’s head.
* * * * *
Noah looked up when the keys rattled in his door. A man he had not seen before stood there looking at him, as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. Noah sat where he was on the bunk and looked directly into his eyes for a moment, and then the man stepped inside.
“Mr. Winston,” he said. “I'm Colonel Vladimir Leschinsky, with the SVR. I've been placed in charge of your safety while you're in our custody.”
Noah nodded and grinned. “Sam Winston,” he said. “You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I harbor a wish that your hospitality won’t last much longer, won’t you?”
Leschinsky smiled. “I believe you may well get your wish, but I'm not certain how soon. I'm told that you've been made aware of the stories about you and your friends?”
Shrugging, Noah looked at him and shook his head. “I’ve been told something about some crazy idea that we're supposed to be Russian spies who were hiding in America. First off, that doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, and second, all of you people keep talking about ‘my friends.’ The only person I know here, assuming he’s here somewhere, is my old buddy Harold.”
“As it happens, I cannot as yet prove differently. However, I've only moments ago been shown evidence that you've been to Russia before. There was a photograph taken of you sometime in the past, at Sheremetyevo Airport. Your hair was considerably shorter than it is now, so I know the photograph is not a recent one. I'm told that you were identified at that time as the man who killed Vasily Andropov. Would you care to refute that accusation?”
Noah squinted at him. “Vaseline drop off? What kind of a name is that?”
The Colonel burst out laughing. “Oh, yes, the American sense of humor. I cannot tell you how it pleases me to hear it once again. It has been a long time.” He turned and looked at the guards that were standing in the hall behind him. “Close and lock the door. Mr. Winston and I have matters to discuss.”
The door was closed and Noah heard the lock click into place. He strained his ears to be sure that the guards had walked away, then looked up at Leschinsky. “I’m sorry, what was it you wanted to talk about?”
Leschinsky pulled the chair away from the table and sat down. “Mr. Winston, I've been in this field for a number of years. This is not the first time I've heard of the Sovetskiye Spets, the Soviet Specials. Do you know what I’m referring to?”
Noah curled his upper lip. “Is that a menu item at a Russian restaurant?”
The Colonel shook his head. “No. The Soviet Specials were the graduates of a special training course in which they were trained to speak, act, and live as everyday Americans. Once they had graduated from their training, they were carefully inserted into communities around the United States, using brilliantly crafted identities. Most of them were couples, men and women who were assigned together. Their identities and documentation showed that they were married, although a few of them got married after arriving there. Many of them had children, and some of those children were eventually told the truth. I know that a number of them were willing to embrace the loyalties of their parents and were brought under the control of loyal Russian handlers.”
“Hey,” Noah said, “that’s a popular theme in books and movies. I think there was even a TV show about it, not that long ago. Are you trying to tell me there was actually some truth to those stories?”
“Oh, yes. The GUSP, our General Directorate for Special Programs, was very active in this regard from the early 1970s until 1991. When the USSR was ended, there were quite a number of these agents in the United States. Many of them were left in place, and their identities are, of course, some of our greatest secrets.”
Noah put on an expression that he hoped would convey the idea that he was mulling this over. “And you’re saying that people think that’s who I am? Who we are, me and these other people you keep talking about, right?”
“Indeed, this is true. As of this moment, most of the world believes that’s who you are. To be perfectly honest, I first thought that those news stories were only some sort of disinformation that was put forth by the CIA, but seeing that photograph of you has made me wonder. If you're the man who killed Vasily Andropov, then it strikes me as quite possible that you're exactly who these stories claim you to be.”
Noah shook his head and squinted. “Wait a minute, wait,” he said. “You’re telling me that somebody who looks like me killed this Vaseline whatever a year ago, and that makes you think I really am a Russian agent? Do me a favor, let me have some of whatever you’re smoking, would you? It’s got to be a whole lot better than anything I’ve ever had before.”
The smiles and laughter suddenly vanished, and Leschinsky leapt up off the chair and grabbed Noah by his throat. “Do not laugh at me,” he said. “Vasily Andropov and his father, Nicolaich, were two of the most hated men in Russia. Nico was the type of man who would set people to following you, to find ways to blackmail you into doing his bidding. Vasily, his son, was one of the most evil and perverted creatures that has ever walked upon the Earth. The two of them had many enemies, and some of the most powerful of those enemies were Grigori Pacheco and Pavel Boskovich. To you, those names probably mean nothing. They were, however, the two most powerful men in the GUSP, and Vasily had toyed with and raped both of their daughters.”
Noah’s eyes went wide. “I think I’m catching on,” he said. “So, now you're thinking they may have activated some of these sleeper agents to come over here and kill him. Am I right?”
“It would make sense. Pacheco and Boskovich could have arranged his death locally, but it might have left trails that Nico could follow. He would have killed them both in retaliation, and killed their families at the same time. Their children, their parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandchildren… All would have died in terrible ways.”
Noah nodded. “But if it was some American who did it, then it doesn’t come back on them, right?”
“That's correct. I know that after Vasily was killed, Nico was driven out of the Russian intelligence community and became a rogue. He sold information to the highest bidders, he arranged assassinations, he used the influence he gained from blackmailing so many people to enrich himself in many ways, and all because he had an obsession. He wanted to find the American who killed his son. He was absolutely convinced, as were his superiors at the time, that this assassin was an agent of the American government. Rumor has it that Nico also died at the hands of that assassin, but the whole thing is shrouded in mystery and intrigue to the point that we may never know the truth.”
Noah shrugged again. “Okay. And you're telling me all this because…”
Leschinsky smiled again. “I've two daughters, Mr. Winston. The eldest of them is now sixteen years old, and the younger is only fourteen. Three years ago, Nicolaich Andropov wanted me to cooperate with him on a certain matter. I refused, and the next day I received an email containing photographs of my daughters. Both of them were naked, Mr. Winston, and there were tears in their eyes. Vasily Andropov was holding each of them by her throat.”
Noah said nothing, but continued to look into Leschinsky’s eyes.
“Moments later, the email and the photographs vanished from my phone and from my computers. Immediately after that I received a telephone call from Nico, who told me that my cooperation was no longer optional. To protect my daughters, I did the thing he wished me to do, and I'm not proud of that. From that day on, I looked for any possible way I could to strike out at the Andropovs, but I never found an opportunity. It should not be hard for you to understand that I'm grateful to whoever ended the life of that monster.”
Noah cocked his head and nodded. “I can completely understand,” he said. “And I’ll even be honest enough to tell you that, right at this moment, I really, really wish I was that man. The kind of gratitude you’re talking about might a
ctually do me some good, but unfortunately, I’m not him.”
“You asked me to forgive your wish to leave our hospitality. I'll now ask you to forgive my belief that you're a very convincing liar.” Leschinsky released him and broke out in another smile. “Now, to business. I've been ordered to move all of you to a safe and secret location. The president is concerned for your safety, and it's absolutely necessary for us to keep you very safe. Many countries are demanding answers, and it may be necessary for you to be available for questioning at any time. It's likely that all of the major world powers will send investigators, as well as the United Nations. We must do everything we can to ensure that you're available to speak with them.” He walked toward the door for a moment, then stopped and turned back to face Noah. “It will not matter what you say when you're questioned,” he said. “The investigators will form their own opinions based on how they perceive you, rather than on your replies. I can tell you that you'll be moved sometime in the next few hours, all of you together, to a rather lovely and luxurious estate about an hour from here. There, you'll no longer be confined to a cell, but you'll be given a bedroom and the freedom to enjoy the house and the grounds. There will be guards, of course, to prevent your escape, but we will be doing everything possible to ensure that you're comfortable.”
Noah chuckled. “And all because of some crazy news stories,” he said. “You know, this could be a pretty good premise for a book, itself. Maybe I could write one, someday, if I get out of this alive.”
“Perhaps,” said Leschinsky. “At the moment, all I can tell you is that you’re going to live longer than you might have expected this morning.” He turned and tapped on the door, and a moment later the guards opened it again. He stepped out, turned again to look back at Noah, and smiled before walking away.
