Rasputin's Legacy

by Lee Jackson

  RASPUTIN’S LEGACY

  Lee Jackson

  Copyright ©2016 by Lee Jackson.

  Rasputin’s Legacy is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictionally. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the US Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, loading, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at Lee@AuthorLeeJackson.com.

  Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Stonewall Publishers, LLC

  Austin, Texas

  ISBN: 978-0-9898025-0-5

  LCCN: 2017906942

  First Edition, July 2017

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  “Clearly one of the best books of historical fiction I have ever read. Extremely entertaining and educational at the same time.”

  —Lieutenant-General Rick Lynch (Retired), former Commanding General, 3rd Infantry Division during the Surge in Iraq.

  “Wow! The story is gripping and plausible, the warning real. A must read.”

  —Joe Galloway, NYT Bestselling Author of We Were Soldiers Once...and Young (adapted to a Mel Gibson movie) and We Are Soldiers Still.

  “Riveting! Lee Jackson takes you on a thrilling ride through the intrigue of the Soviet Union as it raced toward its final days. Feel the fight of those reaching for freedom against the chaos brought on by Rasputin. Couldn’t put it down.”

  —Kris “Tanto” Paronto, Hero of Benghazi, Bestselling Author of The Ranger Way.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Cast Of Significant Characters

  A Global Nightmare Begins

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  DECLASSIFIED TOP SECRET PROFILE OF ATCHO

  Enjoy This Book? Make A Big Difference…

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  Another Book By The Author

  Curse The Mooon (Excerpt)

  About The Author

  Dedication

  Irene Fisk

  The best teacher who ever lived.

  Barbara Jackson

  My wife, and the other best teacher who ever lived.

  Carmine Zozzora

  My unexpected and very patient mentor in writing this book.

  CAST OF SIGNIFICANT CHARACTERS

  ATCHO (Eduardo Xiquez Rodriguez de Arciniega) — Protagonist

  Colonel General Borya Yermolov — Antagonist

  Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin — Legendary Russian Mystic

  Sofia Stahl — Atcho’s Fiancée

  Burly — Retired CIA Officer

  Anthony (Tony) Collins — Investigative Reporter

  Tom Jakes — Newspaper Editor

  Rafael Arteaga — Atcho’s long-time friend

  Juan — Atcho’s Deceased Friend and Mentor

  Nestor Murin — Chairman of the KGB

  Colonel Dmitri Drygin — KGB Officer

  Major Ivan Chekov — KGB Officer

  Jeloudov — Soviet Ambassador to Cuba

  Aleksey — Former Rasputin Servant

  Marcel — Aleksey’s Grandson

  Francine — Marcel’s Wife

  Millie Brown — Intelligence Analyst at US Embassy in Switzerland

  Vassily Aznabaev — Soviet Ambassador to France

  Colonel General Kutuzov — Regional Army Commanding General in Siberia

  Lieutenant General Fierko — Commanding General of KGB Border Troops

  Marat — Russian Tour Guide

  Father Matfey — Priest at the Nevsky Cathedral in Novosibirsk

  Lieutenant Colonel Zhukov — Soviet Pilot

  Zane McFadden — CIA Station Chief in Moscow

  PROLOGUE

  30 December 1916 – St. Petersburg, Russia

  On that freezing winter night, Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin came to what much of the Russian nobility regarded as his just end: he was murdered. A Russian nightmare had ended. The world’s nightmare had just begun.

  November 1988 – A village outside of Paris, France

  The heavy smell of fish soup assaulted the CIA officer’s nostrils. It came from two booths away. He had come into the tavern for a quiet drink before calling it a day, and had not expected to see the dark visage that scrutinized his own from that booth as he took his seat. He sucked in his breath, and quietly cursed himself for showing a rookie’s surprise.

  The man knew he had been recognized. He appeared to be the central figure among men sitting around him, and the CIA officer recognized most of them. They belonged to a loose sect of zealots who revered a shadowy figure from Russia’s past, the mystic called Rasputin.

  Sitting next to him was another smaller man the CIA officer did not know. He was older, but his bespectacled face was strikingly like the central figure, as though they could be related. That could be worrisome.

  The presence of this group in the tavern with the sinister man in the booth seemed incongruous. The men had always seemed harmless, monitored only because of their ties to the former Imperial Russian royal family. And yet here they were, with him.

  The CIA officer knew the last man well. He was KGB. Short, blond, and muscular. The two had shadowed each other for years across operations involving competing national interests in Paris. Now the Soviet operative stared at the American with a doleful, almost regretful expression.

  The officer knew he had only minutes to report the existence of a man believed to be dead for over a year. The implications were unfathomable. He set his drink on the table, rose, and walked through the tavern. Even as he reached the exit he saw movement from the corner of his eye, and knew the blond KGB officer followed him.

  1

  December 1988 – Washington, DC

  Atcho pulled his 9mm Glock from his belt and threw his full weight against his oak town house door. Pain shot through his shoulder as the door crashed in, and he heard an anguished cry from the dark interior.

  He pulled back, and drove harder. The door slammed forward, propelling someone against the inner wall. Atcho drew back and drove again, and again. He heard a muffled groan.

  Crouching low, he stepped inside and pointed his pistol into the shadows, listening for signs of an additional intruder. He heard none. The door swung shut, but did not catch. He chambered a round. The sharp kerchink of steel on steel resounded.

  A dark figure hurtled th
rough the shadows. Atcho fired. He heard a gasp, and then fell back as a fist caught his throat and knocked him against furniture. He gulped for air. The intruder clutched his hair, pulled his head up, and slammed a fist into his chin.

  Atcho’s temple pounded into the floor. He struggled to roll, but the man’s legs had his arms pinned. Atcho tried to raise his pistol, but his assailant rose, kicked it from his hand, and ran through the dark living room and out the back door.

  Atcho found his gun, and followed. When he arrived in the backyard, it was empty. He went into the alley and checked both ways, stopping to listen. Nothing.

  He walked back into his living room. The front door swung open and another figure stood silhouetted in the porch light. Atcho raised his pistol.

  “Don’t shoot!” a voice called. “It’s me, Burly.”

  Atcho loosened his grip on his gun only slightly. A light over the entrance flicked on, illuminating his big bald friend.

  “What the hell?” Atcho groused. “I almost shot you.” He cleared his pistol and replaced it in its holster.

  Burly stepped into the room, a retired CIA officer in his late fifties whose athletic body had softened with plenty of Irish ale and probably only intermittent exercise. He glanced about, noting the displaced furniture. “What happened?”

  Atcho told him. Burly examined the front door. “Whoever it was had to be professional,” he said. “There are no marks on the lock and he knew the layout of your apartment.”

  “He’s not all that professional,” Atcho growled. “He didn’t have a lookout, and I surprised him.” He looked at Burly curiously. “What are you doing here?”

  Burly ignored the question. He crossed the room and leaned over a scarlet blotch on the floor. “You hit him,” he said. He followed a trail of small blood spots through the kitchen. “He’s not hurt bad. You must have grazed him.” He settled onto a plain beige couch and took in Atcho’s dark complexion and the silver strands streaking his otherwise jet-black hair. Atcho was a few years younger than Burly, and even in a suit, he looked a superb athlete. “Are you going to call the police?”

  “I’ll file a report.”

  Burly looked around at the meager furnishings. “Sofia has her work cut out for her. When’s the wedding?”

  “Next month. I’m a little busy. Will you tell me why you’re here?”

  Burly arched his brows. “I’m a courier this time.” His voice intoned reluctance. “I have a message for you.” He leaned back, but did not alter his gaze. “An invitation.”

  “An invitation. You’re retired.”

  “Yeah, I’m retired. The higher powers thought you might be more, uh,” he searched for a word, “amenable, if I approached you.”

  Atcho showed his impatience. “I don’t have time for chitchat.”

  “I know.” Burly held up his palms in a placating gesture. “Ronald Reagan requests your presence with me, in New York.”

  “The president? Why? Why not here in DC?”

  “Mikhail Gorbachev is there to address the United Nations. Reagan will be there to say goodbye before leaving office. It’s the last time they’ll be together officially. They’re both grateful about what we did last year, and want to say so.”

  “The president wants to see us to say thank you—again? And Gorbachev too.” He stood. “Why wouldn’t he have a staff member arrange a meeting? Why send you?”

  Burly looked nonplussed. “You need to go with me to New York. Sorry to call in a favor, but you need to do this. Get the cops over here and file a burglary report. I’ll handle them. Then we both need to be on an early morning flight to New York.”

  ***

  They first flew to Denver. They had a layover for several hours before departing to New York City, with plenty of time to reflect. Atcho barely thought about the burglary; he kept nothing of value in his town house. But he was amused and irritated at the circuitous route that Burly had insisted they take to New York. Too much cloak and dagger.

  Thoughts of his impending marriage brought images of Sofia to mind, and he smiled. She was a widow twelve years younger than he, and had worked for State Department Intelligence since before her marriage to her late husband.

  He recalled when they had first met in the swelter of Havana. He, a just released political prisoner, gaunt, half-starved, unkempt, smelly. She, beautiful, elegant, kind. The twists of fortune that had brought them together, separated them, and then returned them to each other, were surreal; yet here they were, preparing to commit to a life together, if only the world will leave us alone to live our lives.

  His thoughts returned to his current trip. Maybe Reagan and Gorbachev just want to avoid the press. By the time he landed, angst was just a dull sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  2

  When Atcho and Burly arrived at the Long Island estate where the two heads of state would meet, Secret Service agents ushered them into the mansion’s library. Moments later, they heard a commotion outside the door. Burly opened it. A Secret Service agent blocked his passage, but did not obstruct his view. Atcho noticed that the two seemed to exchange glances. He joined Burly in the doorframe.

  In the grand foyer beyond them, a throng of senior White House staffers, media luminaries, and camera crews were about to move past them like a wave of suited humanity. Ahead of them, President Ronald Reagan and Soviet Communist Party General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev walked together, apparently trying to confer above the din.

  The president always impressed Atcho. He had heard rumors of waning lucidity, and searched for signs, but today, Reagan seemed in full control. No handlers hovered nearby.

  Just as the two men drew even with the library door, they both stopped and gazed about the foyer while Reagan pointed out various architectural pieces of interest. Then he looked in Atcho’s direction, made eye contact, and nudged Gorbachev. The general secretary also made eye contact. They did the same with Burly.

  Atcho stared back at them, fascinated by Gorbachev’s elongated birthmark over his left eye. He recalled how it had appeared through the scope of a high-powered rifle. Then both men moved on, and Reagan commenced once again to draw Gorbachev’s attention to points of interest.

  The Secret Service agent moved in front of Atcho and Burly and closed the door, leaving them inside. Atcho turned on Burly. “That’s it,” he murmured. “You dragged me up here for that?”

  Burly pulled him by the shoulder to a seating area, and they both sat down.

  “What’s going on?” Atcho demanded. “What does Reagan want?” He was not prepared for what Burly told him.

  “Govorov’s alive!” Atcho leaped from his chair and glared at Burly. “How is that possible? I buried a knife in his chest in Havana last year. Where is he? I’ll finish the job.”

  Burly eyed him somberly. “Well, to start with,” he said, and his reluctance was obvious. “His real name isn’t Govorov. That was an alias he used for what KGB operatives called the ‘Atcho Project.’” He left that to sink in.

  Atcho’s head jerked up. “Nice to get special attention,” he said sarcastically. “What’s his real name?”

  “Officially, in Soviet intelligence circles, he is Borya Yermolov.”

  Atcho shook his head. Yermolov, the erstwhile Govorov, had masterminded a plot to assassinate General Secretary Gorbachev a year earlier. Atcho had stopped him in bloody hand-to-hand combat on a military base outside of Havana.

  “We thought you’d killed him too,” Burly went on. “So did the Soviets. We don’t know where he is.” He told Atcho that the Cuban Army had rushed Soviet General Yermolov to a hospital, and had worked overtime to save him. “You punctured his lung, but the knife glanced off a rib and missed his heart. He was comatose for a while.” Burly spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “The Soviet Embassy reported him dead.”

  “And Moscow believed it?” Atcho groaned. “How could he escape Cuba without the KGB or the CIA knowing? Castro wouldn’t jeopardize the billions of rubles the Soviets send him
.”

  “Not overtly.” Burly broke into a wry smile. “It’s no secret he isn’t fond of the general secretary’s reforms. As long as he could keep Soviet aid flowing, Castro would help Yermolov.”

  Atcho paced. “I suppose they want me to go after him.” He stared at the floor. “I just had my first full year of living normally. I’m not going back into a spook’s life.” He continued staring as he ruminated. “Yermolov won’t come after me. He’s too pragmatic for revenge. He has a plan and he’s implementing it.” He glanced at Burly. “Why would I look for trouble?”

  “You just said you’d finish the job.”

  “I know what I said.” Atcho’s eyes glinted. “Tell me where he is, and I’ll go after him. But I’m not going to spend months in shadows trying to find him. Get someone else to smoke him out.”

  “Got it,” Burly rejoined. “Think of this. If the assassination had succeeded, the conspirators would be in power right now. Yermolov could be occupying a senior position in the KGB or on the Politburo.”

  “Not my problem. Reagan is the guy who called the Soviet Union an evil empire. Now he wants me to help save that government?” He walked across the room to a window, and stared past the scenery into nowhere. “The Soviet Union helped a dictator kill Cuba.” He whirled around to face Burly. “You know what those people did to me personally—to my family.” Burly watched him. Fury lined Atcho’s face. “Give me one reason why I should care what happens to the Soviets.”

  Burly stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know, buddy. If you refuse, no one will blame you. But picture Yermolov’s finger on the nuclear launch button. How safe would anyone be, including your family?”