by Lee Jackson
Castro peered at him closely, but was silent. He grunted, pulled heavily on his cigar, and blew smoke rings in the air. “Fortunately for you, the Soviet premier has requested – respectfully – that I expedite your return to Washington, tonight.”
He started toward the front of the hangar, and motioned for Atcho to join him. Atcho turned and looked at Govorov lying on the ground. “Is he dead?” he asked.
“I don’t know. We’ll let the doctors worry about that.” He started off again. “As I said earlier, this is a night of ironies. I, of all people, was asked to relay an invitation to the White House. One of my MiGs is ready to fly you to Washington. You’ll be met en route by U.S. fighters to escort you into Andrews Air Force Base.” He shook his head. “Unbelievable! Maybe this is what they call détente.” He chuckled at his own joke.
They arrived at the front of the building where two Jeeps stood waiting. “Goodbye, Atcho. This has been a most interesting night.” Fidel climbed into his Jeep and drove away.
Ivan stood at Atcho’s side. “Your night is not over yet,” he said. Atcho looked at his watch and gasped. Only five and a half hours had passed since he had left the safe house. It was now just past nine-thirty.
“I enjoyed working with you,” Ivan said, shaking his hand. “Maybe we can work together again.”
“Nothing personal,” Atcho replied dryly. “But, no thanks.”
EPILOGUE
46
Atcho awoke with a start, and glanced at his watch. It was now eleven o’clock. The MiG was settling onto the runway. He had slept through the entire flight. A Jeep met the fighter on a ramp, and led the way. Through blurred eyes, Atcho watched as they followed into a massive, well-lit hangar. When the aircraft halted, the canopy slid back, and Atcho climbed down. Two Marine guards, who seemed barely able to contain their curiosity, met him and guided him quickly through a door to a waiting helicopter.
Moments later, Atcho looked down at the soft, twinkling lights of Washington, DC. The rhythmic vibrations of the whirring blades relaxed his sore muscles. There had been no opportunity to clean up, so he still wore bloody, sweat-stained clothes, and he stank. Someone had given him a moist cloth to clean his face and hands, but blood still caked his hairline.
He leaned back. He did not know what to expect at the White House. But even if he were in trouble, nothing could compare to the misery of the past twenty-seven years. His ordeal was finally over.
He looked up at the moon. “Who’s really to blame?” he whispered to the brilliant, glowing orb floating in the night sky. He shrugged.
The helicopter floated to the lawn of the White House, and Marine guards hurried Atcho across the grass into a rear door. He looked around tiredly as he followed through a maze of halls and corridors. They climbed stairs, and passed offices to a wide foyer.
A courtly, southern gentleman met them, and introduced himself to Atcho as the president’s Chief of Staff. He motioned for Atcho to follow, and then proceeded along a portico and through a door. “Mr. President; Mr. Premier,” he announced. “Mr. Eduardo Xiquez.”
Atcho entered in a daze. He was in the Oval Office.
Tall and amiable, President Reagan crossed the room, his warm smile exuding confidence. The familiar figure of the Premier of the Soviet Union followed him.
“It’s so good to see you again,” the President said, extending his hand. “Sorry to bring you here so quickly after your ordeal, but the premier wanted to meet you. He is leaving tomorrow.”
Atcho was speechless. He looked at his grimy hands and filthy clothes, then back at the President. Mr. Reagan took his hand and shook it. A mischievous smile formed at the corners of his mouth. “I want to ask you,” he said. “Why weren’t you around to tell me to duck back in ’81?”
Premier Gorbachev also reached for Atcho’s hand and shook it. “I owe you a personal debt,” he said. “And so does my country. A simple thank you seems inadequate. Is there anything I can do?”
Atcho stared numbly, his gaze resting on the Premier’s birthmark. “Yes sir, there is,” he replied. The Premier looked at him expectantly. “You can accept my resignation from conscripted service with the KGB.”
The Premier reddened, and smiled uneasily at the President. “Anything else?”
Atcho shook his head tiredly. “No sir,” he replied, “but I’m pretty sure the President will want to ask you a few questions about General Clary.”
The two heads-of-state laughed uneasily, and President Reagan began to guide him to the door. “Wait,” Mr. Gorbachev said. “I have a question for Atcho.” He turned to face him. “Would you really have shot me?”
Atcho held his steady gaze, then replied, “I see you know the whole story.” He looked at President Reagan, and then back at the premier. “If the choice is ever between anyone and saving my daughter,” he replied quietly, “I’ll take that shot.”
A brief silence followed, then the President intervened with a twinkle in his eye. “People are waiting to see you downstairs, Atcho. The premier and I have to get back to a state ball.”
They shook hands again, and Atcho followed the Chief of Staff out of the office. Another Marine in full dress uniform led them down more stairs. Exhausted, Atcho barely took in the contrast between the soft-carpeted floor and stately decorated walls of the White House to the cold austerity of the Lubyanka. The Marine kept glancing at him curiously. Atcho smiled wanly.
“I don’t know what you’ve done, sir,” the Marine said, “but I know it must have been really something. I’m honored to meet you.” He took off his white glove and extended his hand. Atcho nodded tiredly and accepted the proffered handshake.
They rounded a corner and Atcho saw a group of men gathered at the end of a hall. One of them saw Atcho and nudged the others. They started toward him. Atcho stared in disbelief. Bob was there, and Burly, Rafael, and Mike. They surrounded him, clapped arms over his back, and led through another door.
“Hey Atcho,” Rafael called, “When I told you at the reception that we were destined to do something together, this is not what I had in mind!” He grinned, grasped Atcho’s shoulder, and steered him through another door and out onto a terrace. Above them, the full moon bathed the area in soft light. A small group of men had gathered there. They clapped as they saw Atcho, and surrounded him.
He stared around at them. They had street clothes that looked worn and crumpled, and their faces bore several days’ growth of whiskers. Atcho glanced from Burly to Rafael. “Who are these people?” he asked.
“Our men,” Rafael replied. “Members of 2506 Brigade! They were brought for questioning after the FBI took over protective custody of your family. The president pardoned all of us just moments ago.”
Atcho looked at the faces around him. They were rugged and unpretentious, and bore that familiar quality of quiet physical confidence and competence. One of them had a bandaged jaw.
“What happened to him?” Atcho asked.
“You have a very protective son-in-law,” Burly said. “Bob wouldn’t let anyone near Isabel, and when this man tried to explain what was happening, Bob busted him in the mouth. He fractured his jaw!”
Bob looked sheepish. “I’ve already apologized,” he said, walking over to the man and putting an arm around his shoulder. The man grimaced, but shook his head good-naturedly. Bob turned back to Atcho “Come on over here,” he said. There’s someone who wants to meet you.”
The crowd parted as Atcho followed to the center of the terrace. Isabel was there, sitting on a chair, tears streaming down her cheeks. In her lap was a tiny bundle wrapped in blankets. She struggled awkwardly to her feet, and threw one arm around her father’s neck. “I’m so sorry, Papa,” she whispered softly. “I know what you went through for me. I hate myself.” She sobbed quietly. Around them, the men stood back a respectful distance as a hush permeated. Bob put an arm around Isabel and Atcho.
Atcho hugged Isabel. He could think of nothing to say. Then, he felt something move by his waist.
He pulled back, and stared into the blankets in Isabel’s arm. Two tiny eyes peered up at him. Wonder crossed his face. “Papa,” Isabel whispered through a broken smile. “Meet your granddaughter, Kattrina.” She put the infant in Atcho’s arms. Aware of his grimy condition, Atcho protested, but Isabel pushed him gently, so he held his tiny granddaughter. He pulled her close to his face and squeezed as much as he dared.
No one cared to break the quiet, but after a few moments, Burly coughed at his shoulder. “That’s what I kept trying to tell you, you stubborn Cuban!” he said. “When Bob and Isabel rushed away from their house, they went to the hospital. The baby arrived a month early!”
Atcho looked up briskly and whirled to Isabel. “Should you be here?”
She nodded. “The doctor said we would be OK for a little while. The president’s doctor here is monitoring.”
Atcho shook his head, and looked around at the members of 2506 Brigade gathered around him. “I can’t express my gratitude enough,” he said in a broken voice.
“Then don’t,” someone quipped. “Let’s not get sappy!” Deep throaty laughter of warriors filled the room as Atcho walked around to shake hands with each one. He held the baby to his chest while Isabel hovered nearby.
Atcho felt a soft hand on his shoulder, and turned. Sofia looked into his eyes with an expression that was both somber and impish. Atcho sucked in his breath. She had never appeared more beautiful. Burly stood next to her. The terrace was quiet again. Atcho stared back into those wondrous eyes he had grown to know so well, but he felt at a total loss for words.
Burly once again broke the silence. “I’m no fool,” he blurted. “Why do you think I did so many things for you without question? Sofia came to me after you broke up with her. She knew something was up. She begged me to help.”
Atcho continued to gaze at Sofia. A puzzled expression crossed his face. He remembered when Sofia had told him, “I’m not someone who sits around.” He cleared his throat, and then without turning his head, he said, “So, Burly, a pretty lady comes and asks you for help involving national security, and you just do it?”
Burly’s face reddened, and he looked flustered. “Well, ah,” he stammered. “Uh, we’ve worked together before.”
Atcho looked over sharply, but before he could say anything, Sofia tugged at his elbow. Isabel moved in and scooped up the baby.
“You won’t escape me again,” Sofia said softly but firmly. He took her in his arms.
In the night sky, the moon continued its impassive observation.
Atcho is the only covert operative on earth to be trusted by both the president of the United States and the premier of the Soviet Union. A chance meeting of Rasputin, a mysterious monk with the daughters of the last Czar deep in the forests of Russia sets in motion cataclysmic events that surface 70 years later. Atcho finds himself battling a mysterious religious sect, the KGB, the Soviet military, and the Communist Party to save the National Power that had kept him imprisoned for more than 19 years – and he must do it without help or assistance from US intelligence resources. Failure would result in placing the full nuclear capabilities and military might of the Soviet Union into the hands of a madman bent on world domination.
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
PART I
PART II
PART III
PART IV
PART V
PART VI
PART VII
PART VIII
PART IX
PART X
PART XI
PART XII
PART XIII
EPILOGUE
