by Lee Jackson
Mushroom clouds seemed to swell in front of Atcho, followed by haunting pictures of cataclysmic destruction, previewed fractionally in Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Juan appeared, a ghostly apparition, his strong, calm eyes looking seriously at Atcho. “You cannot be impulsive,” he said, and disappeared. Then, Atcho’s father appeared, leading a long, gray line of proud, illusory figures.
“Duty, honor, country,” he whispered. “You can’t start World War III!” The strong chords of the West Point song sounded through his mind. “ … or living, or dying to honor, the Corps, and the Corps, and the Corps!”
Atcho dropped his head and lowered the rifle. “Listen carefully, Burly,” he yelled hoarsely into the phone. “Tell Mike Rogers to get the premier back into the car! Do you understand? The Soviet premier must go back inside the car! Now! There’s going to be an attempt on his life!”
Atcho sensed movement in the window across the street. A rifle barrel pointed at the premier. He jerked his own weapon to his shoulder, centered the scope on a dark mass in the shadows, and fired. The report reverberated from the walls.
“What was that?” Burly yelled.
“Never mind! Just tell Mike to do as I said!” Atcho crouched, and peered over the windowsill. Across the street, the rifle barrel was visible, pointed skyward. The dark figure had disappeared. Poor bastard, Atcho thought. I wonder what Govorov did to keep him under control.
Below, people were looking around confused. Then they focused their attention in Atcho’s direction. He looked at the convoy. A band of men in dark suits surrounded the premier. They hurried him to the limousine, and masked his entry into the back seat. Then, the procession raced off toward the White House.
“Burly, are you still there?”
“Yeah!”
“Have you heard from Major Richards?”
“Yeah, just a minute ago. He said he never saw that picture. Paul Clary brought it to him in an envelope, told him what it was, and suggested he try to get it to the resistance movement.” Burly paused. “Is Clary the informant? Is he a spy?”
“Can’t confirm yet. I gotta go,” Atcho said abruptly.
Before he could hang up, Burly yelled through the phone, “Atcho, she’s safe! We have Isabel! Do you hear me, Atcho! Isabel is safe!”
Atcho froze. “What?” he asked in a daze.
“Isabel is safe.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Burly yelled. “We have her! She’s safe! And there’s more good news.”
“Not now,” Atcho replied tersely. “I’ve got to move!” He shoved the rifle back into the hollow wall and replaced the wooden sill.
“Stay close to the phone.” He hung up. His heart beat furiously. He looked at his watch. Scarcely two minutes had passed since he spotted the police moving down the street. He returned the cellular phone to his attaché case, yanked the desk back into its original position. Then, he strode to the door and stopped to survey the suite.
Except for the open windows, everything appeared as he had found it. Even the smell of gun smoke had been dissipated by free-flowing air. He peered into the hall. It was empty. He rubbed the door handle with his handkerchief to remove fingerprints, took off the surgical gloves, and put them in his pocket. Then he walked down the corridor and into the rest room.
Moments later, he heard footsteps of men running in the hall. “Open up!” someone yelled. A loud thumping noise sounded as the door to the vacant suite was broken down.
Atcho crossed the floor and stood in front of a urinal. Seconds later, two men burst through the door. “Don’t move an inch. Who are you? What are you doing here?” Atcho turned slightly. They held pistols, pointed at him.
“I own the building,” Atcho replied. “Do you mind if I finish what I’m doing?”
One man flashed a badge. “Did you see or hear anything strange up here?”
“Yes, sir,” Atcho replied, fixing the front of his pants. “When I came off the elevator, I heard a sound like the backfire of a car. When I came down the hall, a guy pushed past me into the stairwell.” He continued to fiddle with his zipper.
“Was he carrying anything?”
“Yes, come to think of it. He had something wrapped in blankets.”
“You stay with this guy,” the man instructed his partner, indicating Atcho. “I’ll check out the stairwell. See what’s in the briefcase.” He left while his companion reached for the case.
Atcho swung his hand down, caught the man by the back of the neck, and rammed his head into the wall. The hapless agent dropped like a stone. Atcho grabbed the man’s pistol and shoved it into his belt. He pulled the earpiece and radio from the limp figure, adjusted them on himself, and picked up the agent’s badge. Finally, he dragged the man into one of the toilet stalls and closed the door.
Moving swiftly to the elevator, Atcho displayed the badge to more agents swarming there. He pushed a button, and descended to the first floor. When the doors opened, a mass of agents and policemen jammed onto the elevator. “They’ve cornered someone on the roof,” he told them, and held the badge before him again.
Outside, Atcho used the Secret Service badge to move through the crowd of curious onlookers. He walked purposefully until he rounded a corner, then put the emblem in his pocket and pulled the radio wire from his ear.
Two blocks further on, he hailed a cab. He gave instructions to his home, sank into the back seat, and closed his eyes. His body felt heavy as weariness overtook him. Blood rose to his head, making him feel hot and dizzy.
He reopened his eyes and watched tall buildings pass by. His task was not complete. Isabel and Bob were safe for the moment, as were the rest of Bob’s family. But federal officers were needed to continue protective custody until Govorov’s apparatus was neutralized. Rafael’s men could not be expected to continue their pretense much longer. Burly would have to use his influence to secure adequate federal protection.
I’d better call Burly, he thought, and then sat up in dismay. He had left his attaché case in the restroom, complete with telephone and real estate documents that would identify him. “Pull over!” he told the driver.
After hurriedly paying the fare, he walked swiftly along the busy street until he found a phone booth. There, he dialed Burly’s number.
“Where are you?” Burly demanded. “Everyone’s looking for you. They found your briefcase in a restroom where you beat up a Secret Service agent. Mike Rogers wants to talk to you.”
Atcho sighed. “I figured that. Look, we still have work to do. Keep stalling Mike. I’ll call him later. Meanwhile, bring in federal authorities to relieve Rafael’s men.” He thought a moment. “Get word to the Russians that General Govorov was a major conspirator. And tell Mike to look in the building directly across from the one where I was. He’ll find a body there that might shed some light. Rent me another phone and car for me. Do that before Mike’s men start watching your every move. I’m going to the safe house.”
43
Atcho paced restlessly. Six hours had passed since he arrived at the office along the north bank of the Potomac, and there had been no sign of Burly. Without a phone or radio, he was cut off from outside news. Undoubtedly, he was the current target of a manhunt. Mike Rogers and other officials would press Burly and Rafael for anything they knew about Atcho’s movements.
He glanced out the window. He could not stay in this place longer. The probability of discovery was greater with each passing minute. I expected to kill the premier and be captured, he realized in surprise. But, he was not yet willing to stake his future on the fickle justice system.
Shadows lengthened as he left the safe house. He no longer felt secure there. He moved with rush hour pedestrians scurrying toward evening activities. He clung to the periphery of the masses, watchful for anyone who seemed more than casually interested in him.
Soon, he approached a commercial area near the marina, and entered a boutique. Moments later, wearing a casual, inconspicuous outfit, he emerged and hailed a taxi.
He sat directly behind the driver where his face was hidden from view. The pistol and badge he had taken from the Secret Service agent were under his jacket.
“Have you heard anything on the news about the premier’s visit?” he asked cautiously.
“Not much,” the driver responded. “Some guy scared him bad this morning. Right when this premier stops to shake hands with people, this car crossed an intersection a block away and the engine backfired. They got everybody thinking for a few minutes that it was an assassination attempt, because it sounded like gunfire, ya know. But things settled down pretty quick.”
Whew! Atcho thought. They covered that neatly. He settled into the seat and watched scenery glide by through gathering darkness.
The taxi crossed the Potomac, turned east, and drove along Washington Parkway toward Alexandria. It wound through back streets until it entered a fashionable neighborhood. Atcho ordered the driver to pull over, paid him, and exited the vehicle. He approached the door of a house, and watched until the cab disappeared. Then he walked quickly back to the street, and clinging to shadows, made his way to an alley. Cautiously, he maneuvered through the few remaining blocks toward General Clary’s residence.
He circled, noticing several dark cars parked at various locations around the block. Thankful that early darkness and frigid winter temperatures kept people in their houses, Atcho scurried across the remaining street, and ducked into Clary’s back yard.
The house was dark except for a flickering glow in the downstairs den. Atcho crept to the sliding glass door and peered inside. Against the light of a television, he saw a man sitting in an overstuffed chair. Drawing the pistol from his belt, he pulled slightly on the door. It was unlocked. In one fluid motion, Atcho raised to full height, jerked the door open, and lunged inside. “Don’t move!” he snarled, and pointed the pistol at the figure in the chair.
“Comrade Xiquez!” an unfamiliar voice said. “How fortunate!”
Atcho continued to point the pistol at the man while backing against a wall. With his free hand, he felt for a light switch. “We wondered where you might show up,” the man continued. “This seemed one of the most likely places, so we’ve kept this house under surveillance.”
“Who are you?” Atcho asked tersely. He found the switch and turned on the lights. “Where is General Clary?”
The man ignored the question. “Call me Ivan,” he said, rising and extending his hand. He was nondescript, dressed in a plain, dark suit. “I am a comrade in the KGB.”
“I’m no comrade,” Atcho snarled, ignoring the extended hand. “You stay where you are until I have some questions answered.” Just then, a picture of his own face appeared on the television screen.
A reporter was speaking. “In a curious twist to the story about the backfired engine that upset the premier’s party today, this man is being sought by local authorities in connection with several real estate irregularities. His name is Eduardo Xiquez, and he goes by Atcho. You might remember that last January the president honored him during the State of the Union Address. Ironically, he owns the building that the premier was passing when the incident occurred. Anyone with information concerning his whereabouts should contact authorities.”
Atcho glared at Ivan. “You might as well listen,” the KGB officer said. “You won’t receive help from the Americans.”
“Where is General Clary?” Atcho demanded again.
Ivan shrugged. “I can understand your hostility, and your caution,” he said. “But you have nothing to fear from me. As for General Clary, he is gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I wish we knew. Do you mind if I call you Atcho?”
Atcho continued to stare at Ivan, pointing the pistol at his chest.
Ivan sighed. “Atcho, if we wanted to harm you, we could have done so from the moment you left the taxi. My men have been reporting on your progress since you entered the neighborhood. While you crouched at the back door, you were the target of a high-powered rifle no more than fifty feet away. All I have to do is wave my hand, and you will be shot from three directions. Now, would you please put that weapon down? As strange as it might sound, I think you’ll find that our interests are identical.”
Atcho stared about the room, then back at Ivan. Finally, he returned the pistol to his belt.
Ivan looked relieved. “Good,” he said. “I am authorized to offer you every asset at our disposal to assist in finding the general. As of this moment, I am in command of this operation, but, as the Americans would say, you are running the show.”
Atcho looked at Ivan, stunned. “Running the show?” he asked in disbelief. “What show?”
Ivan chuckled. “I thought you were familiar with our capabilities. We have men watching airports, bus stations, train depots, and every means imaginable of leaving the city. The general’s friends and acquaintances are under surveillance. We have coordinated with American authorities to find Govorov.”
“So General Govorov is also missing?” Atcho asked.
Ivan looked at him strangely. “Let me ask you a question,” he said after a moment. “Because you came here seeking Clary, I assume you’ve learned of his activities. Have you mentioned them to anyone?”
Atcho was suddenly cautious. “What is it I am supposed to have learned?” he asked.
“There’s no reason to mince words, Atcho. You came prepared to kill Clary, so you must have guessed his role in all this.”
Atcho held Ivan’s steady gaze. “So?” he asked.
“I repeat. Have you mentioned to anyone what you’ve learned?”
Atcho hesitated. “One person. Why?”
Ivan stood and paced the room. “I guess it doesn’t matter now,” he said. “The truth will soon be out.”
“You mean that General Clary spied for you guys. Yeah, I guess the cat’s out’a the bag.” Ivan looked at him with a slightly amused expression. “You haven’t guessed the rest of it, have you, Atcho?”
“Maybe I have,” Atcho said testily. “Clary and Govorov are the same guy, aren’t they?”
Ivan nodded. “How did you guess?”
Atcho shrugged.
44
“This is my show?” Atcho asked flatly.
“Yes, sir,” Ivan replied, startled at the transformed man before him. Atcho had come into the room with an air of desperation. Now, he was fully in command.
“Why?”
“Because you won’t let him escape. You have the most reason for wanting him.”
“Then let’s go. My friend Burly won’t be able to keep the dogs at bay forever. Assign a few men to keep watch here. And get me a cellular phone.”
Moments later, Atcho and Ivan were in the back of a sedan speeding toward the capital. Atcho picked up the telephone Ivan provided, and called Burly.
“Where are you?” Burly asked. “I ran into difficulties.”
“I figured,” Atcho interrupted. “I can’t tell you where I am. Are you still in touch with everyone?”
“You’d better believe it. Mike’s here, and so is Rafael. They set up a command post in my house, thinking you’d call in.”
“That’s fine. Tell Mike not to bother tracing this call. Also tell him to call off the dogs if he wants my cooperation. I want to hear a retraction of that news story. Then I’ll contact you again.”
“I’ll relay the message. Mike’s pretty sore, though. He made me reveal everything about the threat against your family.”
“Thanks.” Atcho smiled wanly. Clary had apparently gone unmentioned. “How’s Isabel?”
“She’s fine. Oh! I have something else to tell you.”
Just then, Ivan nudged Atcho. “We think we’ve located the general,” he whispered.
“It’ll have to wait, Burly. I’ll call as soon as I hear that news story.” He hung up and turned to Ivan. “Does your driver speak English?” Ivan nodded. “Good. Tell him to scan commercial radio stations and let us know when he hears anything about me.” He waited for his instructions to
be carried out, then asked, “Where is Govorov?”
“At National Airport. He’s taxiing down the runway in a private jet right now. He used an alias to charter it. One of our men spotted him, but not soon enough. He’s taking off now.”
Atcho sat forward, his brow furrowed in thought. “There’s only one place he can go,” he mused softly. He turned to Ivan. “We’re about ten minutes from National now,” he said. “Tell your men to have another jet fueled, warmed up, and ready to fly by the time we arrive.”
“But, we don’t have a jet. And we can’t rent one. None of our men have the credentials.”
“Then take one!” Atcho ordered. “Your guys know how to do that! Tell them to do it quietly. We don’t want a SWAT team roaring in there. I’ll fly the plane!”
While Ivan conferred over the phone, Atcho leaned back and looked up at the night sky. The moon had risen, full and brilliant. Atcho sucked in his breath. “So,” he muttered, addressing the golden globe, “you came for the final act. How considerate.”
The driver motioned, ending Atcho’s reverie. He sat up to listen to the radio. “This just in regarding the story about Mr. Xiquez, the real estate businessman. Authorities here have egg on their faces. Mr. Xiquez was vacationing when his briefcase was stolen. When it was retrieved, documents found inside related to fraudulent real estate transactions. However, they belonged to the thieves, and Mr. Xiquez has been cleared.”
Atcho grabbed the telephone. “Let me talk to Mike,” he told Burly.
A moment later, the familiar Texas drawl of Atcho’s old roommate came over the line, tinged with an anxious note. “What’n hael’r you doin’, Bud?”
“Sorry things are this way. Do you have channels all the way to the top?”
There was a momentary silence. “D’ya mean to the very top?”
“We don’t have time to play, Mike. I mean to the president.”
