Rasputin's Legacy

by Lee Jackson

  She curled up on a hard sofa before a meager fire, her hands wrapped around a mug of brackish coffee, and stared out a bare window at a bleak sky. Her throat constricted; her eyes brimmed.

  “Where are you, Atcho?” she whispered. Her mind drifted to the events that had brought her to this place.

  Sofia had been barely out of high school when first approached by the CIA. She had been accepted into Yale on a linguistic and music-dance scholarship. Her father had been a diplomat, assigned to various embassies around the world, so she had been neither surprised nor put off by the recruitment.

  She had become vaguely aware of the notion of CIA “agents” at the embassies; and as a teenager, she had even tried to figure out who they might be among people she knew. She never did identify one.

  Sofia had been a superb athlete, good at any sport she tried. Her favorite was ice-skating. In all her father’s assignments in northern countries, skating rinks had been close by. In the southern regions they had been scarce, so she had taken up ballet.

  In matters of culture, she gravitated to classical styles. An aspect of her job she loved was the opportunity to enjoy classical music, art, and architecture around the world.

  The CIA offered to pay the difference between what scholarships would cover and the total outlay for her tuition. Since linguistics and music-dance covered much ground, her cost of education was high and the difference significant. With such an academic load, outside work was not feasible, so the CIA offer had presented another attractive element: on graduation, she would immediately enter a paying profession for which her obligation was to serve with the CIA for a specified time. No student loans.

  As Sofia advanced through college, she received CIA guidance on shaping her courses of study. From her dance and skating training, she had developed strong legs. Her recruiters urged her to take up martial arts as well, and to her surprise she found that she enjoyed them immensely, and that she was also good at them.

  During her junior year, she began winning tournaments. She also intensified her language studies so that she became conversational in French, Spanish, and Russian. In the years since, she attended defense-sponsored language schools, and became fluent enough to speak without an accent.

  While attending basic CIA courses after graduation, Sofia’s natural charm and language skills and her long exposure to the diplomatic community caught the eyes of her superiors. When finally assigned to the field, she found herself embedded with the State Department in foreign embassies. Her father had been pleased because she appeared to follow in his footsteps.

  Now, as she sipped her coffee, a painful memory intruded: a zipped bag enshrouding the body of her slain husband. He had been a CIA case officer whose expertise had been the Middle East. When they married, she had cut her activity with the CIA to that of an analyst.

  The burial was closed-casket. He had been severely mauled. Even with her high-level clearances, Sofia never received a credible report about what happened. The ordeal left her feeling broken.

  Now she felt again the agony of her loss and the fury from not knowing what happened. Outwardly, she had maintained her professional composure. Inwardly she had seethed as she worked her way through embassies around the world and resumed an active role as a CIA field officer. Then, she met Atcho.

  She remembered how hopeful he had seemed when she first saw him at the Swiss Embassy in Havana, where he had just been released from nineteen years in prison. That was in 1981. He was still wearing dirty, smelly prison clothes, had a growth of beard and unkempt hair, and was very thin. Sofia was there to help process political prisoners released under a program negotiated with Castro by the Carter Administration.

  Moments after greeting him, Atcho had been emotionally crushed while speaking over the phone with his now-grown daughter in upstate New York, and finding that not only had she thought him dead all these years, but she wanted no part of him. His sister had raised her. All these years, she had thought that he deserted her. His anguish was palpable, and Sofia was moved.

  Despite his pain and appearance, Atcho had maintained an air of dignity that had captivated Sofia. When later that day, he had disappeared back into Castro’s dungeons, she could not keep him out of her mind. Many years later, he had surfaced, in all places, as Ronald Reagan’s guest of honor at the State of the Union Address. She had been invited to a reception after the address, as someone who had interacted with Atcho at the Swiss Embassy, and there the two re-met. He was then a successful real estate tycoon, and she was officially a senior intelligence supervisor at the State Department. Their romance sparked.

  It was she, Sofia, who had alerted Burly that something was wrong in the way that Atcho acted; that he seemed distanced from his daughter by forces outside of himself; that despite his obvious longing to be close to his daughter, he made no move to reconcile; and that he seemed to deliberately alienate all who came close, including Sofia herself. Weeks later, she learned the truth: that Atcho had been coerced to be a sleeper agent for the Soviet KGB, and had been used to attempt to assassinate Mikhail Gorbachev.

  Suddenly angry in her farmhouse room in Virginia, Sofia sat up on the couch. “This will not happen again,” she murmured, grim-faced. “I will not lose another husband.” She reached over and picked up the receiver of a rotary telephone setting on a side table. She dialed a number and listened as the call went through. Burly answered.

  “This is Sofia.” She heard his sudden intake of air. “Listen and don’t talk. I’ll move when we’re done. You won’t find me.”

  “Sofia—”

  “I said listen. I’m in no mood to be placated, lied to, misled, or any of the other things that our employer does so well. I want straight answers, and I want them now.”

  Burly sighed. “What do you want?”

  “I’ll tell you what I know. You fill in the gaps. Atcho is on mission. I’m certain of that.”

  “Sofia, this isn’t a secure line.”

  “I know. Look, Atcho is not involved in a transaction in Austin or anywhere else. I checked. He talked with those people at the power source company, but he’s not there now. So, I still think it’s the thing from last year. I did inquiries at home base, and I’m positive that headquarters is not involved.” She left it to Burly to read between the lines.

  He remained quiet.

  “Atcho’s not a professional operator,” Sofia went on, “and you sent him against a killer.” Controlled rage tinged her voice. “You brave guys can’t even give him much support.”

  “I can’t say anything,” Burly said. “You need to come back in.” His tone grew stern. “People want to speak with you.”

  “Which tells me I’m on the right track. Tell ‘people’ to stop trying to find me. Now.”

  “Please come in. You’ll only make things worse.”

  “You know I won’t. I know this.” As she spoke, her voice broke. She took a deep breath. “My fiancé is putting his life in danger for the rest of us again. I’m trained. I’ll figure out what to do.”

  “You haven’t been in the field in years.”

  “I can take care of myself. Will you help or not?”

  Burly sighed audibly. “There’s not a lot I can do. He’s already mad at both of us for not telling him where you work.”

  Sofia shook off dismay tinged with guilt. “He’ll cope. You can help. I don’t know how, but you do.”

  Burly was quiet. Then he spoke, low and slow. “All right. I’ll give you what I can. Get to a library. Find a biography about Rasputin.”

  “Rasputin? Was he even real?”

  “Do you want my help or not? Get the book.” He gave her the name of the author and the title. “After you’ve read it, give me a call.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Sure,” he replied gruffly. “I want you to think about something. I’m a good friend to both of you. I always will be.”

  Sofia’s tone softened. “I know, and I love you for it. I can’t leave Atcho out there al
one again.”

  “He’s resourceful. That’s why he’s effective.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  As soon as Sofia hung up, Burly turned to the other men in the room. “Did you get a trace?” One shook his head in dismay.

  “She’s in Virginia, but that covers a lot of ground.”

  “All right. Contact local authorities statewide. Have them notify libraries to alert police to anyone requesting any book on Rasputin. Do the same for bookstores. Tell them to be on the lookout for any lone woman.” The men stared at him skeptically. “I know, I know. She could look like anything. But it’s all I’ve got.”

  ***

  Twenty-four hours later, Sofia sat in the Bibliothèque de Saint-Michel in Montreal. She expected that Burly would expand and intensify the search, but she would probably have some time before he reached beyond US borders.

  She was deathly tired. She had managed a little sleep on the airplane, but having found the biography Burly had named, she struggled to comprehend what she was reading. The narrative fascinated, but the twists and turns of Rasputin’s life and the heights of power he ascended seemed too darkly humorous to be true. She read rapidly, trying not to miss anything, but when she had finished, she was bewildered. Why did Burly want me to read this?

  She started at the beginning again and read slowly, deliberately. Her eyelids felt heavy. Her body ached. Then near the end, she found reference to a group of Rasputin followers in Paris. There were no specifics about where in Paris they were located, but Sofia was certain this was the link she needed. Fifteen minutes later she was in a taxi headed back to the airport. Her spirits lifted.

  14

  Four thousand miles away, Atcho and Rafael left Ivan lying on a bed in the safe house, and then went into the sitting room. “How did you manage the accident?” Atcho asked.

  “Simple. Burly located Ivan working out of a Soviet trade company north of Washington. He has a favorite bar, Chewys.” Rafael explained how the operation had been pulled off. “We put a dead guy from the local morgue in Ivan’s car. One of my men drove it off a back road into a ditch and made sure it would burn. Burly had it reported as a DUI fatality. The whole thing took a few minutes.”

  “Who’s we?”

  Rafael grinned. “Who do you think? Our guys from Brigade 2506.”

  Atcho smiled at the reference to the brigade of Cuban refugees that had landed at the Bay of Pigs more than twenty years ago. It was for them that he, Burly, Juan and their band of compatriots had prepared the beaches to assist the invading force that was supposed to have been supported by the United States. Among the brigade’s fighters had been Rafael. It was the veterans of Brigade 2506 who had kept Atcho’s family safe during last year’s encounter with Yermolov.

  “Why did Burly send you?”

  “He couldn’t send Ivan alone, and you needed him right away. I volunteered. I knew you needed help over here, and Burly isn’t providing much.”

  Atcho regarded Rafael with the warmth of old friends. “Thanks. He’s providing what he can, but do you know how dangerous this is?”

  Rafael laughed. “Are you serious? After I kidnapped a KGB officer and brought him across the ocean on a public airplane?”

  Atcho felt sheepish. “Silly question.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  Atcho grimaced. “I don’t have one. We need to find out where Yermolov is and what his plan is. Then we can figure out what to do.”

  ***

  Late that night, Atcho called Burly. “Your courier didn’t show.”

  “I know,” Burly grunted. “There’s been a delay in getting the piece of equipment you’ll need.”

  “Can you give me a hint?”

  “No.”

  15

  At the time that Atcho and Rafael settled Ivan into the safe house, Borya Yermolov watched a blue sedan laboring up a gravel road on a hilltop twenty miles east of Paris. It ended where he stood, in front of a hunting cabin. He was tall and erect, and the cold wind moaning through towering pines lashed against still-sensitive scar tissue, a reminder of his last encounter with Atcho.

  Aside from eyes that burned with ferocity over a protruding jaw, Yermolov’s face was expressionless. Despite his red plaid shirt and brown corduroy trousers over rugged leather boots, he had the look of a human weapon—more of a honed killing machine than a man.

  “More fish soup?” he snapped, indicating the car.

  “Yes, General.” They spoke in Russian.

  “That stuff is going to be the death of me. Dispose of it as usual.”

  As Yermolov spoke, another man took the stewpot from the sedan now parked in front of the cabin. Yermolov’s expression changed momentarily to amused distaste. It hardened as the driver of the car approached him, carrying the pot.

  Yermolov glared at the man, who changed course and took it around to the back of the cabin. Moments later he heard liquid poured onto the ground. A breeze carried the acrid smell of fish.

  The rogue Soviet general saw the soup as a security risk. He doubted that the couple that brought it to the town thought their actions carried real import. Their parents were members of the faithful who attached religious significance to eating the horrible concoction. But he had had to humor the older ones while establishing his base. They still had valuable contributions to make. He tolerated their overtures, but with increasing revulsion.

  His mouth formed a lascivious grin as he recalled the origin of the superstitious reverence for Rasputin’s favorite dish. The mystic had hosted bawdy feasts in his apartment for the aristocracy of St. Petersburg. No invited minister dared refuse.

  A gambit Rasputin used was to have his servant prepare a huge bowl of fish soup. While he circled the room eating chunks of bread dipped into the bowl down to his knuckles, his eyes penetrated to the core of his guests. Then he selected a particularly attractive wife of a noble supplicant. While his eyes silenced protest, he stood in front of her and pressed a shapeless mass of dripping, smelly bread into her mouth. As greasy liquid ran down her exquisitely tailored dress, and while her hapless husband watched transfixed, Rasputin wiped his hand across her breasts and down into the folds between her thighs.

  Yermolov knew that despite Rasputin’s scorn for nobility, he respected his limits and was kind to servants and peasants. His mysticism combined with national prominence created his charisma. His followers worshipped his affectations. Fish soup became to them what holy water was to Catholics, and reverence for it passed through the generations among followers, including the group Yermolov had met with in the tavern.

  Returning his thoughts to the present, Yermolov crossed the clearing to the main cabin. As he entered, six men snapped erect around a conference table. All wore civilian garb.

  “Be seated,” Yermolov said. “Before we begin, let’s resolve what to do about that fish soup.” Several staff members chuckled.

  He chided them. “I enjoy humor, but someone might become curious and follow those people out here. We can no longer tolerate the security risk.” He leaned toward a clean-shaven man seated to his left. “Adjutant, take care of it, but use finesse. We don’t want to upset our hosts. Now, let’s hear the intelligence report.”

  A blond man seated near the center rose. “There’s nothing worrisome to report. Since eliminating the CIA officer in Paris last month, there’s no indication that he reported seeing you. We’ve heard rumors of your existence, but our sources at CIA and KGB say they are being handled as unsubstantiated reports.”

  Yermolov raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t those rumors indicate that the CIA officer’s report got through?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe someone else saw you. We haven’t detected a big effort to find you.”

  Yermolov thought a moment. “Has either Reagan or Gorbachev been informed of these ‘unsubstantiated reports’?”

  “Both, and they both ordered low-key inquiries. Neither the CIA nor the KGB is committing many resources.”

  Yermolov was sil
ent, thinking. Then he waved his hand. “Go on.”

  The intelligence officer continued. “There is one situation we have to monitor. We’ve had a team keeping surveillance on the author who wrote your grandfather’s biography. That was done purely as a precaution in case someone got curious as we continue to progress.” Yermolov nodded his approval. “Several days ago,” the intelligence officer went on, “a man showed up at her door. She wouldn’t let him in. He was persistent, when he left, our team followed him. He took a flight to Washington. Another surveillance team watched him there. He turned out to be a reporter for the Washington Herald.”

  “Did you learn his name?”

  “Yes, sir. Anthony Collins.”

  Yermolov jerked forward in his chair. “Tony Collins?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I met him a few times. He interviewed me. He’s a well-known investigative reporter. What story is he tracking?”

  The officer shrugged. “We don’t know. He was in Austin about a week ago, and in New York when Gorbachev and Reagan met, but so far we’ve found no connecting link.”

  “Believe me, there is one. Monitor him and keep me informed. Anything else?”

  “Just one. We lost an officer, Major Ivan Chekov.”

  Before the officer could continue, he was astonished to see Yermolov almost launch himself across the table, his eyes bulging. “Chekov? Lost?”

  “He was killed outside Washington two nights ago. His death is being pegged as a drunk-driving accident, but authorities are closemouthed about it. His body was badly burned.” The intelligence officer ceased talking and stared apprehensively at the general.

  Yermolov remained still, his brow furrowed. At last he looked up. “Fine. Operations, how are preparations coming?”

  Another man stood. “On schedule. Through Rasputin’s followers here we have contact with members of their sect in Novosibirsk. Plans for your reception are well underway.”

  Yermolov nodded. “Any solid penetrations yet?”