by Lee Jackson
Atcho stared at him. “They think he can do that? How? He can’t have much of an organization.”
Burly sighed. Before he could answer, Atcho cut in again. “Reagan and Gorbachev are together on this. Why can’t the KGB go after him, or the CIA?”
“It’s complicated. Those two agencies must be kept out. The idea is to head him off at the pass. Will you sit down and listen?”
Atcho crossed to the couch. “Fine. Let’s hear it—only because you’re my friend.”
Burly exhaled, relieved. Before he could speak, Atcho interjected again. “There’s no way the CIA won’t pick up on this. Or the KGB. It’s too explosive.”
“You ’re right. A CIA officer saw Yermolov last month in Paris. The officer was killed shortly after he filed his report.”
“Killed?”
“Executed. We don’t know who did the hit, but it was a professional job. No witnesses.” He settled back in his chair. “For your information, the director of the CIA is in the loop. He’s not happy about the way the president wants to handle this, but he’ll live with it. We don’t know who inside the KGB might support Yermolov.”
Atcho mulled. “You keep talking about ‘we.’ Where do you fit?”
The big man exhaled. “I’ll be your case officer.”
Atcho looked startled. “I haven’t accepted the mission. They assume a lot. I’m done with that life.”
“That’s why they brought me out of retirement.”.
Atcho nodded as understanding seeped in. “They’re leaning on our friendship. You’re okay with that?”
“I made every argument you’ve given me, because I am your friend. I know where you’ve been. I’d tell them to go fly a kite if the stakes were not so high—but Atcho, they are.” He let that sink in.
“I’ll work from an office in the basement of the White House,” Burly went on. He described the reporting structure, including daily briefings to the national security adviser, attended by the director of the CIA when so desired. “He’ll provide support as necessary, on a close-hold basis.” He nudged Atcho. “One other thing. If needed, I have direct access to the president.”
Atcho stretched, and rubbed his eyes as weariness set in. “I need to think.” He ambled over to one of the windows and looked out. It overlooked a grand driveway. Reagan and Gorbachev were shaking hands, and then both moved off to their respective limousines.
Atcho watched as their motorcades disappeared along the tree-lined driveway. He sensed the end of an era that had been survived. The future felt fraught with peril.
He remembered that after their rough-and-tumble summit at Reykjavik, an astonished world watched relations flourish between the two heads of state. Both men were charismatic and defended their national philosophies, yet they had forged a personal friendship that reduced tensions dominating relations between their countries.
Atcho recalled when the president stood in front of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin and demanded, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” The wall still stood, but restrictions on personal freedoms had eased. East-West travel increased. Poland seemed on the verge of reasserting independence. Soviet states exercised greater autonomy.
Calm had settled over the Western hemisphere. Atcho felt it to be false. He perceived calamitous tensions. In Central and South America, civil wars ignited and abated with unsettling frequency. In the Soviet Union, satellite states clamored for independence. In the Mideast, a war that had raged between Iraq and Iran ended, with no finality. Sooner or later, violence will touch our homes.
3
At his house in Washington, DC early the next morning, Atcho exited the taxi that brought him from the airport after his flight from New York. Burly had taken a separate taxi home. They agreed to meet the next day. Right now, Atcho wanted time to be alone and think.
As he mounted the stairs at his front door, a man he did not recognize approached, and spoke quietly to him. “Mr. Xiquez?” Atcho turned to him.
“Mr. Xiquez, my name is Tony Collins. May I speak with you?”
Atcho was irritated. “Can it wait? I’ve been traveling. If you’re selling something, no dice.”
The man smiled. “This is no sales call.” He pulled a business card from his pocket showing that he was a reporter for the Washington Herald. “I won’t keep you long.”
Atcho examined the card. He knew of Collins, a well-known investigative journalist; and searching his memory, he recalled having seen Collins on television a few times regarding some pressing issues, though none currently came to mind. He reminded Atcho of the TV character Columbo, down to his wrinkled overcoat, although with considerably less hair, and he wore horn-rimmed glasses.
After a moment, Atcho looked up. “Are you here about the burglary? Nothing was taken. The police are handling it. I know probably less than you do.”
“No.” Collins was puzzled and surprised. “I haven’t heard anything about a burglary. What can you tell me?”
“There’s not much to tell. I walked in on him, but he got away. Probably a kid.” Atcho dismissed the subject. “If it’s not the burglary, did I do something wrong? Your reports are not usually about real estate investors, unless there’s corruption.”
“No,” Collins reassured. “Nothing like that. I just have a few questions.”
Atcho regarded him through tired eyes. “Come in. I’ll make coffee. But this had better be important.” Collins chuckled, and followed Atcho into the kitchen.
After filling the coffeemaker, Atcho sat at the breakfast table across from the reporter. “So, what do you want to know?”
“I saw the president honor you at the State of the Union Address last year,” Collins began. “That was intriguing.”
Atcho waved away the comment and studied Collins as the newspaperman took a dog-eared notebook and a Bic pen from his overcoat pocket.
He fumbled through his notes. “Let me tell you what I know about spotty pieces of information that seem to tie together, but I’m not sure how. Maybe you could help?”
“I’ll try.”
“Thanks. Last year, during Gorbachev’s visit to the US, he was greeting the crowd along Pennsylvania Avenue when a car backfired.”
Atcho tensed, but otherwise showed no expression. He saw that Collins watched him closely. “I remember. It caused a stir.”
“As far as the public knew, that’s all there was to it,” Collins went on. “But on the same day, a man was found in a building down the street. He had been shot and killed. The bullet was fired from across the street.”
“I never heard about that,” Atcho lied. “That’s interesting.”
“I thought so too. But news of the body was kept from the public. I only learned of it recently through a confidential source. The guy is reliable, but couldn’t provide corroboration.”
Atcho was relieved, but only slightly. He sighed. “Get to the point. What does all this have to do with me?”
Collins held his steady gaze. “You own that building.”
Atcho’s eyes did not shift. “I own many buildings, including one on Pennsylvania Avenue. I’m in the real estate business. If a body was found as you say, who owns the building where the weapon was fired seems irrelevant.”
“I thought so too. And the media reported the backfire as coincidental to being in front of your building. Frankly, I think the story was planted. How else would the media have made those connections? Anyway, on that very day you were sought for questioning about irregular real estate transactions.”
“That’s right. The police admitted a mistake.” He shifted irritably. “You told me this interview isn’t about real estate. You’d better have another reason for coming to my house early in the morning, or you can leave.” His demeanor resembled that of a German shepherd giving warning.
Collins chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “You’re as direct as they say. Believe me, this is not about real estate.”
Atcho looked less than mollified.
“I remember tha
t all-points bulletin about you,” Collins continued. “In fact, except for one other event, I wouldn’t have considered a possible link between the backfire and the search for you.” He looked at his notes again. “Around eleven o’clock that night, a Cuban MiG flew into Andrews Air Force Base under fighter escort. It was there only long enough to refuel, and then took off again. Then, a helicopter from Andrews flew to the White House.”
“That’s interesting,” Atcho rejoined, “but it falls in the realm of little green Martians. What does any of this have to do with me?”
Collins enunciated slowly. “My source tells me you were the sole passenger on the MiG and the helicopter.”
Atcho’s neck stiffened. He fought to remain deadpan. “Mr. Collins, you’re going to be disappointed. First you have me shooting someone in downtown Washington; then you have me flying in from a hostile country a few hours later.”
“I didn’t say you’d shot anyone,” Collins replied. “Did you?”
Atcho fought down an angry retort, and sat studying Collins in silence. At last he leaned forward in his chair and smiled. “I’m a businessman trying to make a living.” He stood and indicated the door. “I’m sorry you won’t have time for coffee.”
Collins stood with an air of being accustomed to seeing interviews terminated abruptly. “One more question, sir.” He handed Atcho a photograph. “I took this yesterday. It’s not very clear, but that’s you.”
He waited while Atcho studied the photo. It showed him outside the Long Island estate. “Why were you at the estate where the president and the general secretary met yesterday? I was there, with the press. I saw the exchange of glances between you, Reagan, and Gorbachev.”
Once again, Atcho struggled against a hostile impulse. He set his jaw, and pointed. “The door is that way.”
“Got it.” The reporter smiled ingratiatingly. “I’ll check with the police about that burglary for you.”
***
Atcho’s mind worked furiously as he reviewed events. Who else saw me on Long Island?
He reached a discomforting conclusion. Yermolov might already expect me.
He called Burly. They had been fast friends since working together deep in the swamps of Cuba, while preparing for the US invasion at the Bay of Pigs. Although Burly had retired four years ago, he had taken personal risks last year to help bring Yermolov down.
Burly answered the phone. “I thought we were going to talk again tomorrow.”
Atcho told him about his conversation with Collins. “I thought he was here about the burglary. I spilled that news. Turns out he thinks there was an assassination plot last year, and that I might have been involved in it.”
“Not good,” Burly groaned. “If he senses a story, he’s like a bulldog on an ankle. He’s a good guy, though. He’s spiked stories that could hurt national interests. Can you come over?”
4
An hour later Atcho sat in Burly’s living room.
“How can Yermolov expect to threaten Gorbachev?” Atcho asked. “Give me the details.”
Burly furrowed his brow. “Have you studied the KGB?”
Atcho shook his head. “Not beyond what I did for them.”
Burly nodded. “It answers to no one. It’s kept in check by how much the national political leader dominates the KGB chief.”
“You mean Gorbachev and whoever honchos the KGB now?”
“Yeah. The KGB boss is an oily guy, Nestor Murin. He has a solid lock on the KGB. He probably opposes Gorbachev’s policies, the ones that set off the conspiracy last year. They translated to less KGB power. Murin would never be happy with that.”
“I know the KGB has its own army. Is that threatened by the reforms?”
Burly nodded. “It’s more than a million men strong, including armor and artillery, even an air force. It dominates the Party through its secret police.” He cleared his throat. “If Yermolov had control of the KGB, he would make Stalin look like a little boy in short pants.”
Atcho looked at him steadily. “You think he could do that?”
Burly shrugged. “Maybe as a successor to Murin. Remember, he spied for the Soviets for nearly three decades. He was big in the nuclear arms reduction talks.” He paused. “The factions against the general secretary would welcome him with open arms.”
“Why can’t we sic the CIA on him?”
Burly shook his head. “Gorbachev asked Reagan for help to find Yermolov. Getting a US intelligence agency to operate in his own country would be treason.”
“Why can’t they put together a team from both the KGB and the CIA? Handpick ’em.”
“Remember, officially our countries are enemies.”
“But Reagan and Gorbachev are buds. This is a special case.”
Burly took his time to reply. “Gorbachev doesn’t know who in the KGB might help Yermolov. An individual both he and Reagan trust has to go after him.”
“You mean me.”
Burly nodded. He reached across and grasped Atcho by the shoulder. “You’re the number-one guy on a very short list that they both trust.” He gave Atcho a sidelong look. “Frankly, you’re the only one on the list.”
Atcho glanced around the room while he absorbed what Burly had said. “The threat is real,” Burly continued. “We can’t let Yermolov take over the second-most powerful country in the world.”
“A coup?” Atcho’s head jerked up. “That’s farfetched, even with his past, maybe because of it. He’s been in the US for most of his career. He couldn’t have set up the networks he’d need.”
Burly shrugged. “He has all the credentials. If the KGB likes him, he doesn’t need much else. With what he knows, if all he does is get into the KGB or the nuclear establishment, he could wreak havoc.”
Awareness dawned in Atcho’s eyes. He spoke low and slow as his thought developed. “If I get caught, there won’t be any cavalry riding to the rescue. That’s why Reagan brought me to New York—to impress on me how crucial the mission is, with complete deniability.”
Burly thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “That’s right. You never spoke to either of them. They will both disavow you.” He studied Atcho’s face as if to discern whether he fully understood.
Atcho’s eyes narrowed. “Got it. Has Yermolov made contact inside the Soviet Union?”
“Don’t know. A good bet is that he has. He’ll move cautiously. The CIA guy in Paris was monitoring a group with a lot of money. They might provide Yermolov safe haven until he’s built a base of support inside the Soviet Union, and then finance his return.”
“What’s their skin in the game?”
Burly seemed reluctant to go into depth. “C’mon,” Atcho urged. “I need to know this stuff.”
The big man spoke deliberately. “Elections are coming up in the Soviet Union in four months. They’re the first that resemble free elections since the Russian Revolution. Any disruption of voting could set up a return to a Stalin-like dictatorship, and you know what that could mean for US-Soviet relations.”
“None of that explains why a group in Paris would help Yermolov.”
Burly arched his eyebrows. He sat back as if reluctant to proceed. “We’ve known each other a long time, buddy. Stay with me. What I’m going to tell you is way out there.”
“Get on with it.”
Burly leaned toward Atcho. “Do you know anything about the fall of the tsar, or a Russian mystic called Rasputin?”
“I’ve heard of that Rasputin guy; and I know that the tsar’s family was executed. What does that have to do with now?”
Burly told him, in detail. Atcho listened, stunned. “Yermolov,” he whispered. “I suppose they want me to make sure he stays dead.” As he spoke, visions swirled in his head, of unspeakably small torture boxes in dank, dark dungeons; of an impossible escape attempt under the unforgiving glare of an accursed full moon; of coerced training in a non-existent camp outside of Moscow; of years lost while separated from his beloved daughter. Would I risk that again?
Atcho’s disbelief showed. “You can’t be serious. Reagan wants me to bring Yermolov back to Washington?”
Burly shrugged. “We need to know the damage he’s done, and we can’t allow him to pass more military secrets to the Soviets. But if you can’t catch him, kill him. Your call.”
Atcho closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Does Gorbachev know about that part of the mission?”
“No.”
Atcho sat back in his chair, deep in thought. After some moments, he lifted his head and looked at Burly. “Anything on the burglary at my house?”
“Yeah.” Burly was somber. He reached into his pocket, pulled out several small objects, and held them in his open palm. “The cops think it was a burglary, but my guys did a sweep of your apartment. Whoever it was planted these bugs there.”
Atcho stared at the listening devices. “So, someone is already on to this mission,” he said slowly.
“Maybe. The cops don’t know about the bugs. I’ll get them to downplay the burglary. Maybe that’ll keep Collins from going down that rabbit hole.”
Atcho stood. He felt fatigue seeping into his bones. “We can talk about this again tomorrow. I’ll give you my answer then.”
5
After leaving Atcho’s town house, Collins stopped by the police station. Finding the officer who answered the call and made the report took a while. As Atcho had indicated, there was not much to tell.
“We don’t know who the burglar was, and he got away.” The officer laughed. “The resident had to travel, so some retired CIA guy handled things for him.” That piqued Collins’ curiosity, but just then, the officer’s phone rang. While he listened to his caller, he looked up at the reporter sharply, and when he hung up, he was in a hurry to be rid of Collins. “Sorry, I gotta go.”
Collins wanted to find out more about this retired CIA officer, so he called Atcho’s office. His secretary told him that Atcho was at the library. That surprised Collins. He had thought Atcho might have stayed home to rest, but go to the library? Collins drove over and found Atcho engrossed in a book.
