Rasputin's Legacy

by Lee Jackson

  Just as the vehicle had completed the maneuver, Atcho floored his accelerator. His car crashed into the rear of the other one, spinning it again and striking Ivan.

  Rafael bounded out the back door. The Russian driver gunned his engine, straightened his vehicle, and raced down the road through crunching gravel, and a cloud of dust.

  When the air cleared, Atcho saw that Rafael sat on Ivan’s chest, his recovered pistol aimed at Ivan’s head. He looked back at Atcho and shook his head. “He’s not dead,” Rafael called. “The car knocked him over. I punched him out. Now what?”

  27

  Ivan groaned and opened his eyes. He sat with his back against a tree. Rafael stood over him, pistol in hand. A short distance away, Atcho leaned against another tree. Ivan felt the force of his glare.

  “What do we do with him?” Rafael asked.

  “Drop him at the US Embassy. That’s our best bet.”

  “What about Novosibirsk?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to find our own way in.” Atcho started toward the car.

  Ivan heard them as though through a fog. His head ached and he felt stiffness spreading through his body. “You can’t turn me in!” His voice cracked and seemed to come from far away.

  “Says who,” Atcho snapped. He turned to Rafael. “Any ideas?”

  Rafael shrugged his indifference. “Shoot him? Turn him over to the Soviets? Makes no difference to me. We already didn’t have a good plan. He made things worse.” He jerked Ivan to his feet. “Let’s go. The embassy is the best we can do.”

  Ivan struggled to stand up straight. “Listen to me,” he shouted. “I can help.”

  “Not interested,” Rafael growled, jostling him forward.

  “They have my family,” Ivan bellowed. He pushed against Rafael and planted his feet.

  Atcho halted abruptly. “They what?”

  “Yermolov has my wife and son. He called a week before Rafael kidnapped me. He threatened them. He has men watching them.”

  Atcho stared. “Why? What are you supposed to do?”

  Ivan heaved a troubled sigh. “Watch you. For Yermolov. He figured I could get close to you.” He grimaced. “That was me in your apartment. Your shot grazed my arm.”

  Atcho’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You broke into my home? You planted bugs?”

  Ivan said nothing. Rafael moved in, menacing.

  “Yermolov thought you could get close to me, and here we are,” Atcho muttered. “What do you think you can do now?”

  “Execute your plan. I can get to the KGB in Novosibirsk. People there won’t know I’m dead. I can strong-arm.” He breathed hard.

  Rafael squinted at him. “We’re supposed to trust you?” He moved in front of Ivan. “What were you intending when you pointed that gun at my head?”

  “If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.” Ivan faced Atcho. “I thought that man could take me to Yermolov.” His voice took on urgency. “Atcho, if it had been your family, you’d have done the same thing.”

  Stung, Atcho drew closer, scrutinizing Ivan. “All right. I’ll buy that for now. What do we do?”

  “I need to call Russia. Take me to the Soviet Embassy.”

  Startled, Rafael thrust his face close to Ivan’s. “Do what?”

  Ivan dismissed Rafael with a look. He struggled against the cord binding his wrists behind his back. “Hear me out,” he pleaded. “Can I get this rope off?”

  Atcho moved in front of him, arms crossed. “I’ll listen.”

  Ivan’s shoulders slumped. “We need credentials. To get into Novosibirsk.” He looked at Rafael. “You have my papers, right?”

  “We left them in your car. Your death had to look genuine.”

  Ivan rolled his eyes. “That makes things harder. We can get credentials, but it starts at the Soviet Embassy.”

  Atcho thought that over. “We must have a forger on contract in Paris. Why don’t I call DC and ask for him?”

  Ivan exploded. “Yermolov is gone! We need credentials now that pass Soviet inspection. You want to leave that to a contractor?”

  Atcho shook his head. “How do you expect to pull it off?”

  Ivan explained his plan.

  When he was finished, Atcho raised his eyebrows. “That’s gutsy. Even if I thought you could do it, why would I trust you?”

  Without hesitation, Ivan responded, “It’s the only chance I’ve got to save my family. You of all people understand that.”

  Atcho stared. His own despair when his daughter was kidnapped flashed though his mind. Then, he saw again General Secretary Gorbachev’s birthmark against the reticles of his sniper scope, and felt the squeeze against the trigger. How close he had come to completing that heinous act to save his daughter. He turned to Rafael. “Cut him loose.”

  ***

  Ivan breathed a sigh of relief. He sat alone in the middle of the car’s backseat, his hands free. Atcho and Rafael climbed into the front in the mood of futility that follows a strenuous argument. Rafael kept a wary eye on Ivan. “Where to?”

  “The Soviet Embassy.” Atcho glanced across the left front of the hood. The crash had crumpled it, but the tires were unobstructed. They drove down the hill on the gravel road and wended their way through the city.

  Atcho sensed the surreal disconnect known from years ago in Moscow, of seeing ordinary people go about mundane tasks while evil moved in their midst. He had felt it that morning in Washington, DC, when KGB officers drove him to the target site to kill Gorbachev. Today, Parisians could hardly see these three weary men in a beat-up car and imagine that they were at the vortex of a struggle to seize control of the most powerful empire in history.

  He stopped by the curb along Lannes Boulevard, two blocks from the Soviet Embassy. “We’re almost there. How long will it take?” he asked Ivan. “How do we rendezvous?”

  “Three hours. I’ll come to the safe house. Wait for me there.” He glanced up the street. “I’ll walk the rest of the way to the embassy from here. Give me your passports.”

  “What?” Rafael erupted again.

  Ivan ignored him. “I don’t have time for this,” he told Atcho. “You want to get inside Russia? I need the pictures on your passports for new documents.”

  Rafael scoffed.

  “Give him your passport, Rafi.” Atcho handed Ivan his own. Rafael acquiesced.

  “We’ll wait three hours at the safe house,” Atcho said. “Come there. Alone. No calls. Bring our passports. Any deviation, we call curtains on this whole operation and come after you.”

  Ivan grimaced. “Still no trust.” He stepped out onto the sidewalk. “A year ago,” he told Atcho in a wistful tone, “I trusted you.” He closed the door and walked in the direction of the embassy.

  “Do you believe that guy?” Rafael exclaimed.

  “I put him here,” Atcho replied. He put the car in gear. “I need to call Burly. Fast.”

  A few minutes later in the safe house, Atcho spoke rapid-fire over the phone. Behind him, Rafael listened while Atcho briefed Burly and told him what he needed. “It’s urgent.”

  “That’s a tall order,” Burly replied. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “What about Sofia?”

  Burly had no new information. “We’ve widened our search to include embassies and consulates all over NATO.”

  “Anything new on your courier?”

  “No.”

  Atcho felt no comfort. “If Ivan doesn’t come back, what’s the backup plan?”

  “You’re it. You’ll have to get to Novosibirsk on your own.”

  ***

  Portraying a bum, Ivan approached the Soviet Embassy, watchful for anyone taking undue interest in him. He needed no acting. His clothes were disheveled, the side of his face swollen and turning colors. He limped from the stiffness still spreading through his body.

  The embassy came into view. Ivan avoided the main entrance, looking instead for private access for embassy staff that must be at the rear. Finding it, he pressed
a button on the gate. Moments later, a sentry stepped out. Another stood nearby, his rifle trained on Ivan.

  “I am Major Chekov of Section S of the KGB,” Ivan announced before the sentry could speak. “Take me to the ambassador.”

  The sentry looked at him coldly. “Your ID.”

  Ivan stepped closer. “Do as you’re told.” He put his mouth close to the sentry’s face. “I was captured and beaten, and my credentials were stolen. I am in no mood for shit.”

  “But Comrade Major, procedure…”

  “I understand procedure. The first thing is to get me inside and off this street! Then we can talk.”

  The sentry nodded. His companion lowered his rifle. Ivan stepped through the gate into a small courtyard with a guard shack to one side. Across the yard, a back door led into the main building. Ivan was certain the executive offices must be close by.

  “Take me inside the guardhouse,” Ivan commanded. The guards exchanged glances, but did as ordered. The furnishings were sparse. A phone sat on a table. “Call the ambassador’s office. Tell him I’m here.”

  “We can call his secretary.”

  Ivan glared. The sentry stiffened. “Tell her that Major Chekov escaped and needs to see the ambassador immediately.”

  The guards glanced nervously at each other. “Shouldn’t we take you to the KGB section?”

  “No,” Ivan snapped. He drew himself to full height. “You are to say nothing of this to anyone, unless you’d like to explain your loose lips to General Secretary Gorbachev himself!” He looked back and forth between them. “Is that understood?”

  The two stood at attention, their faces turning red. Moisture formed along their hairlines. “Yes, Comrade,” they said in unison. One of the guards jumped to make the call.

  A minute passed. Ivan thought he might soon be surrounded and hauled to a holding cell. Then a look of relief showed on the sentry’s face. “Yes, he’s here.” He listened, and hung up. “I am to bring you to the ambassador’s office. He was expecting you.”

  Ivan did his best to mask utter shock. Moments later, the guard led him into a small reception area inside the main building. The door opened, and there stood Vassily Aznabaev, Soviet Ambassador to France.

  Ivan had seen him on television many times. The ambassador had been a colleague of Gorbachev’s when the two worked together in the Agriculture Secretariat of the Central Committee of the Supreme Soviet. He and the general secretary were known to be fast friends, traveling abroad together on delegations. He had been a strong supporter during the years leading to Gorbachev’s accession.

  Like his friend, Aznabaev had a charming manner, a new factor in East-West diplomatic relations. He was also known for a hard edge; he knew when to employ the “Nyet” style of Soviet negotiations.

  “Major Chekov?” He assumed a professional manner, taking in Ivan’s disheveled appearance with a neutral expression. “I was told to expect you.” He led Ivan into a large office and pointed to a telephone on his desk with the receiver off the hook. “That’s for you.”

  “Who knows I’m here?” he asked in surprise, but Aznabaev’s skeptical glance quieted him. As he crossed to the desk, he saw the requisite portraits of Soviet heroes: Lenin, Stalin, and most of the past chairmen of the Communist Party, including Mikhail Gorbachev. Gone was Nikita Khrushchev, having fallen from grace. I wonder how many coups we’ve had since Lenin. He picked up the phone. “Major Chekov,” he announced.

  “This is Mikhail Gorbachev. Are you alone?”

  Ivan snapped to attention. “Comrade General Secretary. I was coming to call you.” He stemmed his shock. Aznabaev tapped his arm and motioned that he was going out the door. “The ambassador is leaving now.”

  “President Reagan just called. He received a message from Atcho. How can I help?”

  Ivan hesitated. When he spoke, he did so with confidence that he did not feel. “Yermolov is going to Novosibirsk. You can guess why.”

  “Military and KGB assets,” Gorbachev replied. “He could gather a lot of capability there.”

  Ivan explained Atcho’s intentions. “We need travel documents to get in and back out. Mine were lost when I was killed.” He let the sarcasm linger.

  “I heard about that,” Gorbachev said without apology. “We must stop Yermolov.”

  “Do you have a backup plan?”

  “Of course.” Gorbachev gave no hint about what that might be. Ivan doubted such a plan existed. “Tell the ambassador what you need. He’ll see that you get it. Good luck.”

  “Wait, Comrade! My family—” But the general secretary had already hung up.

  Ivan cursed. He sat in a chair facing the desk and closed his eyes. His mind raced. He had only minutes at best. He dialed a number. When it was answered, he spoke quickly.

  The call lasted less than a minute. When he was done, he crossed to a small table and poured a shot of vodka. He tossed it, and felt the clear liquid calming his nerves.

  The main door opened, and Aznabaev strode in. “Comrade Gorbachev told me as much as he could before you arrived,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”

  Ivan glanced at his watch. He suddenly felt heavy with fatigue, emotionally more than physically. He looked at Aznabaev. “We only have two hours.”

  ***

  Rafael spotted Ivan first. He and Atcho had left him a note and moved to a café across the street from the safe house after the call to Burly. Nearly four hours had passed since dropping Ivan off. “I hope he follows instructions,” Rafael said dryly.

  They watched Ivan enter the safe house and shortly re-emerge. He walked to the curb, glanced around, and crossed the street.

  “He wasn’t looking for anyone,” Rafael observed.

  “Maybe. He’s a pro.” As Ivan disappeared into the crowd, they went after him. When satisfied that no one followed, they confronted him in the café specified in their note.

  “You’re late,” Atcho said.

  “Getting three sets of documents to travel inside the Soviet Union isn’t easy,” Ivan snapped. “Glad to see the trust factor went up.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Fine. The general secretary sends greetings.” He read their skepticism. “He said you sent Reagan a message. Thanks for the help.”

  Atcho remained stone-faced. Burly got through.

  From inside his jacket, Ivan produced two sets of papers, including their passports. “Welcome back to the KGB, Atcho.” His tone bordered on sarcasm. “You are now Colonel Nikolina. Rafael is Colonel Ovinko. With these, we can travel anywhere in the Soviet Union. I’ll do the talking. All you have to do is look stern. Can you handle that?”

  Rafael glared at him.

  Ivan ignored Rafael. “We have a direct flight to Moscow tonight. We connect to Novosibirsk three hours after landing. We’ll be there tomorrow night.”

  28

  Yermolov strode into a staff conference on the airbase in Romania. Transport from Paris had gone off without a hitch. A Soviet cargo plane with French markings had flown them from a private airstrip. It demonstrated strong support within the Soviet Union.

  Safely in a Soviet satellite state now, half the forces that sought Yermolov were neutralized. The US did not know his whereabouts. He could scarcely believe the distance he had come since lying near death in Havana. He regretted telling Chekov, “I will have my day.” He had expected to die. Now the statement seemed foolish.

  The first time the Soviet Ambassador to Cuba had visited him at the clinic, the bustling outside Yermolov’s door ceased. The ambassador had come alone. Yermolov sensed someone by his side. The ambassador sat in the same chair that Ivan had used a few days earlier. He leaned in. “How are you feeling, General?”

  Surprised at the expression of respect, Yermolov opened his eyes to see a man he did not recognize.

  “I am Ambassador Jeloudov. Don’t speak. I came to say that you are among friends. Many of us object to Gorbachev’s policies.”

  As soon as Yermolov was out of dang
er, the ambassador moved him to Soviet VIP quarters in a secluded part of the embassy. The few conversations between them were short, but productive. The ambassador’s behind-the-scenes maneuvering became evident. He had reported Yermolov dead, and certified documents to that effect.

  “Castro is no friend to Gorbachev,” Jeloudov said. “If the Soviet Union crumbles, so do subsidies to Cuba. He ran interference in case Soviet authorities demand your body.”

  During another conversation, Yermolov asked, “Do others support my return home?”

  Jeloudov did not hesitate. “Why else would I take the risk?”

  Yermolov studied him. “How do we bring this off?” he asked slowly.

  “We’re both exposed here. We need to get you out of Cuba.” He planned to fly Yermolov to Nicaragua, and then to Europe. “You’ll be able to hide in plain sight while you make contact in Russia, assemble a staff, and get ready to transfer home.”

  Yermolov studied the ambassador. He was a small man who could pass for Latin nationality, which might be why he was effective with Cubans. “Why would you help me get back to Russia?”

  Jeloudov chose his words carefully. “I’m a diplomat, not a warrior. You’re experienced in the Cold War.” He raised his eyebrows. “From inside both superpowers.”

  Yermolov acknowledged the comment, and Jeloudov continued. “Gorbachev’s policies will destroy the Soviet Union. Russia will lose its dominance over Eastern Europe and will be vulnerable to Western ambitions. Napoleon and Hitler both demonstrated how ruinous that could be for Moscow. I don’t want to see the chaos that is certain with the Soviet Union gone.”

  Yermolov sat quietly, formulating his next question. “What do you expect to see if I return to Russia?”

  Jeloudov responded without hesitation. “The restoration of our country’s greatness and stability.”

  Yermolov nodded slowly. This man is skilled. Better watch him. “You could not have kept me alive, certified my death, and hoped to move me to Europe without help from KGB and Party officers here in Havana.” His comment was more a question than a statement.

  Jeloudov displayed an amorphous smile. “As I said, you are among friends. We believe you can make a change.”