by Lee Jackson
After they had landed, they made their way to the gate for Novosibirsk. Fortunately, their KGB credentials had allowed them to travel with their weapons.
Ivan commandeered a vacant VIP room with a phone and placed a call. He spoke for fifteen minutes in Russian. Almost as soon as he finished his call, Ivan paced near another door situated on the opposite wall. He looked at his watch and then the door, and repeated those actions for the next hour, stopping occasionally to stare out a glass wall overlooking the airport.
“Did you see when our flight leaves?” he asked Atcho.
“We have two hours. Why don’t you sit down?”
Ivan ignored him and resumed pacing. Atcho glanced at Rafael, who watched Ivan through half-closed eyes.
The door near Ivan opened. A Soviet Army colonel walked in, accompanied by a US Army colonel. Startled, Atcho started to rise.
Ivan’s eyes opened wide. He motioned for Atcho and Rafael to stay seated.
“Are you Major Chekov?” the Soviet colonel inquired.
“I am.”
“Are we ready?” the US colonel queried. “I have my orders.”
Ivan glanced nervously at Atcho. “The others haven’t arrived yet.”
Just then, the door opened. A Soviet captain entered, escorting a pretty woman in her mid-thirties and a young boy in his early teens. Seeing them, Ivan’s face lit up.
“Lara, Kirill!” He ran to them and engulfed them in his arms.
Lara threw her arms around Ivan’s neck and sobbed. “Ivan, what’s happening? They told us you were dead!” She pulled back to look into his face through tear-filled eyes. With rushed and staggered phrases, she told him that Gorbachev’s personal security had taken them from their home at night and brought them here. “We had no time. We left everything.” She broke into sobs once more.
Ivan caressed her face. “I know, darling. I’m so sorry.” He held her gently. “I can’t explain now. Please go with this American and do as he says. He’ll take care of you. I’ll join you in a few days.” Then he turned to embrace Kirill, pulling his son’s face into his chest. “I love you,” he said softly, and his face showed his pain. “Take care of your mother.”
“When will we see you, Papa?”
“Soon,” Ivan promised. He stood back, nodded to the colonel, and held his wife and son one more time. “Go. I love you.”
Lara pulled away, wiping tears from her eyes. After gazing at his father, Kirill followed. The colonel pointed the way, and the door closed behind them. Ivan remained in place, staring at the door.
Atcho stood and walked across to Ivan. “What was that about? Was that your wife and son?”
Ivan nodded. His face contorted with struggling emotions. “That,” he rasped out, “was the price of my willing cooperation.” He walked over to stare at the airport scene beyond the glass wall. Atcho crossed the room to stand near him. Rafael studied him.
After a time, Ivan half-faced Atcho. “I hate the way our people have to live.” His voice shook. “I dreamed that Lara and Kirill could live in the US. Now they will, courtesy of Mr. Gorbachev and Mr. Reagan.” He closed his eyes momentarily. “I hope they’ll be safe.”
“How did you do it?” Atcho asked in disbelief.
“I made the agreement at the Soviet Embassy in Paris. That was my condition for coming back to help you.” His voice took on a note of disdain. “I spoke on the phone. In Russian.”
Atcho started to place a supporting hand on his shoulder, but Ivan glared, and shoved Atcho’s arm away. “Don’t!” he hissed. “Do you see what your foolish haste did?” He was silent a moment. “My family is terrified. This was not the way I hoped to bring them to America.” His anger was palpable. “I might never see them again. They know that.” He turned to stare through the glass.
Stung, Atcho backed away and went to sit near Rafael. An hour passed. Ivan took a seat. Atcho waited for a few minutes, and went to sit next to him. Ivan did not immediately look up, but his fury seemed to have receded. “What now?” Atcho asked.
Ivan glanced at him, his face neutral. “My family is safe,” he said, “so you have my willing cooperation. That was the deal. But,” his voice took on a tone of ferocity, matched by his change of expression, “the mistrust must stop. I had no choice in coming here. You did.”
Atcho started to apologize. Ivan cut him off with an upheld hand. “Don’t. If I meet hostility or disrespect again, you’ll find your own way out of Siberia.” He gestured at Rafael. “That goes double for him.”
Atcho stared. “Got it. Now, how do we do this?”
Ivan gathered his thoughts. “Yermolov couldn’t hope to bring off a return through Novosibirsk without high-level military support in place, so he must have gotten some already.
“He must have similar support from senior levels in the KGB. Moving that entire staff secretly across the border wouldn’t be easy, so KGB Border Troops had to have arranged entry.
“He’ll need popular support to gain legitimacy, particularly with the coming elections. The Rasputin sect could help with that. His advantage is that anyone who might oppose him probably doesn’t know he exists.
“Incidentally, I don’t think he’ll try a tactical nuke to blackmail Moscow. He might like to try to steal one, but he’s pragmatic. He wouldn’t be the first guy to think of that. Soviet safeguards are in place. If he tried, he’d alienate support.
“Whoever masterminded his escape thought long and hard about how to do it. Matching Yermolov with Rasputin followers was ingenious. So was planning his campaign to start in Novosibirsk.”
“Do you believe he’s a descendant of the tsar and Rasputin?”
Ivan shrugged. “The sect believes him. That’s all that matters.”
“How do we proceed?”
“He’ll need a meeting of top commanders. He’ll have to control elements where commanders oppose him soon, or he could find units shooting bullets at each other. That’s civil war. He’ll avoid that. So will Gorbachev, which is why there’s no force going to Novosibirsk to arrest the bastard.” He yawned. “Let me think. By the time we land in Novosibirsk, I should have something.”
Atcho stood to stretch and glanced at his watch. Another thirty minutes remained before boarding. “Can I call the US from here?”
“Would you want to? I can route it to appear to originate somewhere else, but it’ll be monitored by unfriendly people.”
“I know. I’d still like to try.”
Ivan placed the call and handed the phone to Atcho. When it was answered, Atcho blurted out, “This line is not secure. No names.”
“Got it.” Recognizing Burly’s voice, Atcho breathed relief. “Glad you called,” Burly said. They spoke in cryptic terms, and when they hung up less than a minute later, steel talons seemed to have gripped Atcho’s stomach. Burly had just told him that Sofia was in Moscow, and still operating on her own.
At that moment, an attendant appeared in the doorway. “It’s time to board,” she said. “Follow me.”
***
What is Sofia doing in Moscow? The thought plagued Atcho on the flight to Novosibirsk. He pushed his worries from his mind.
Tensions had dissipated between members of his team, but Atcho still had only a vague notion of how to proceed. “Tell me about the Russian Orthodox Christians in Novosibirsk,” he told Ivan.
Ivan searched his memory. “There are a lot of them. Saint Alexander Nevsky was born there.”
“I read that Rasputin was from there too,” Atcho interjected.
Ivan nodded. “The cathedral was named for Nevsky. The Soviet government closed it years ago, along with all the cathedrals in the Soviet Union. Gorbachev recently encouraged parishes to apply to return them to local ownership. I’m sure the parishioners in Novosibirsk did that.”
He recounted Nevsky’s story, a military hero so revered by the populace that he was canonized two hundred years before Rasputin was born. “Nevsky cared about people,” Ivan said. “Christians who know both stories
will not revere Rasputin.”
“That’s interesting Russian history,” Atcho said after a while, “but what are we going to do when we get to Novosibirsk?”
“You’re missing a point,” Ivan said. “We have a strong argument for turning members of the Rasputin sect at the Nevsky Cathedral. They could help us get close to Yermolov. Isn’t that what you want?”
“That could take a while. Yermolov is in country. He won’t wait for the elections, or for us to change minds about Rasputin. There must be a faster alternative.”
Ivan gave him a sidelong glance. “There is.”
***
Evening settled shortly after landing in Novosibirsk. News of Ivan’s demise had not yet made it to the local station. He secured a KGB vehicle without difficulty.
“Tell me again what we’re going to do,” Atcho said.
“We’re looking for the highest commanding general in the area,” Ivan replied. “I’ll show him a letter from Gorbachev requiring full cooperation, and say we need assistance to monitor Russian Orthodox Church members who might be overly aggressive in pressing for more religious freedoms ahead of returning the Nevsky Cathedral to Church control.”
“And you have such a letter?”
Ivan produced it from a pocket inside his overcoat. “I requested it at the embassy in Paris. We don’t know what we might need or when, so it was written broadly to require cooperation of anyone we present it to.”
Rafael whistled from the backseat. “Whew! That is some pull.”
“Right,” Ivan replied. “It’ll get us help, or get us killed.”
“Won’t the commanding general wonder why the local KGB isn’t handling it?”
“He might, but he probably won’t ask. It’s Gorbachev’s initiative, and for him to take personal interest wouldn’t be unusual.”
Atcho considered that. “What do we hope to accomplish?”
“You said we want to get ahead of Yermolov. He must be working through the KGB Border Troops. He might not have direct contact with the military yet. We need surveillance on the Rasputin group and military units related to last year’s conspiracy, as quickly as possible.”
“But you’re a major. Won’t the highest military commander—?”
Ivan produced a new ID card. “They made me a colonel too.”
They headed southeast toward Novosibirsk. Atcho watched absently as snow-blown fields and forested hills slipped by, creating a sense of desolation in a hostile land. The heater barely worked, and cold crept into his skin.
Ivan noticed his discomfort. “Welcome to the achievements of a great socialist power. We make substandard cars, and you only have to wait three years to get one.” He laughed. “People think that Soviets don’t have money. We have plenty of rubles. There’s just nothing to buy. And it’s all poor quality.” He was on a sarcastic roll. “What economic power can match that?”
Atcho held himself against the cold. “You’re an unusual KGB officer. You admire our Western decadence.”
“You lived in Cuba,” Ivan rejoined. “You know what it’s like. Americans forget what they have.” His jaw tightened. “You built a society where anyone can prosper. That’s why I sent Lara and Kirill there. I want a good life for them.”
Atcho regarded Ivan soundlessly. What have I done?
Streetlights blinked on as the little car puttered into the city. Ivan turned into a checkpoint at the entry of an army base. When he pulled up to the guard shack, a sentry spoke with him and checked their IDs. Moments later the sentry returned their credentials, and waved them through.
“Gentlemen,” Ivan announced. “Welcome to the belly of the bear. This is the headquarters of the Soviet Army Regional Commander, Colonel General Kutuzov.”
37
Yermolov felt a strange sensation as Kutuzov guided him through the halls back to his office—hubris eroded by anxiety. “We’re on our way,” Kutuzov exclaimed. They had just left Murin and the conference of generals.
“I don’t want to celebrate yet, but thank you for your enthusiasm.”
“Securing our country’s rightful place is worthy of sacrifice.”
“I agree.” He looked at Kutuzov. Does an honest patriot still reside in this country? Poor fool—but a useful one.
Five loose ends bore on Yermolov’s mind: Atcho, Chekov, his family, Collins, and Sofia Stahl. He had heard no news about them in two days. He hated loose ends.
They entered Kutuzov’s office from the rear. It was large but spartan. A double door encased in the far wall was the main entrance. Yermolov assumed that it led into a reception area.
“I’ll pour some vodka,” Kutuzov said. They had just clinked glasses, when they heard a rapid knock. The door from the reception area burst open. An orderly appeared, looking flustered.
“I’m sorry, General,” he blurted. “Three KGB colonels are in the foyer. They’ve been here for an hour and insist on seeing you.”
Before he could say more, the door swung wider, and three tough-looking men entered, wearing civilian clothes. The first walked over to Kutuzov and was about to speak, when Yermolov rose from his seat. Hearing the chair scrape, the man looked past Kutuzov and made eye contact with Yermolov. With no change of expression, he diverted around Kutuzov, strode over to Yermolov, and presented himself at attention.
“Major Ivan Chekov reports,” he announced in Russian.
At the door, Atcho and Rafael froze, staring at him with questioning eyes. Ivan gestured toward them. “I said I would come to you, General Yermolov. These are my prisoners. Both are posing as KGB colonels, and they are armed. Please take them into custody.”
Without hesitation, Kutuzov pulled his Makarov and pointed it at Atcho and Rafael. Then he barked an order to the orderly, who hurried into the foyer.
Within seconds, two armed guards took up positions inside the door. Kutuzov turned to Yermolov, his face a mask of fury. “Someone tell me what’s going on in my headquarters. Who are these men?”
Yermolov’s face hardened as he recognized Atcho. “This is the man who stabbed me.” He crossed the room to within inches of Atcho. “I see there is still fire in those eyes.”
Atcho stared back into eyes devoid of emotion. Then he struck, hard and without warning, landing his right fist on the left side of Yermolov’s jaw. He followed with a matching left blow to the right. Then he stepped in, grabbed Yermolov by the collar and delivered multiple punches to the stomach. The general doubled over, and Atcho brought a knee to his chin that sent him careening backward, landing in a heap.
Yermolov’s back had been toward Kutuzov and Ivan. Atcho attacked so fast that neither saw what took place, until Yermolov fell.
Atcho stepped forward, intending to continue the beating, but Ivan tackled him and pinned him to the floor. Rafael jumped to Atcho’s aid, but the guards grabbed his shoulders and pointed pistols in his face. Kutuzov pulled the charger on his pistol and aimed at Atcho’s head. The sharp metallic click resounded through the room.
“Don’t shoot him!” Yermolov gasped. He raised himself to one knee while regaining his breath. Ivan clambered up. Atcho got to his feet. He glanced at Rafael, who stared at the floor.
Yermolov regained composure. Then he stood in front of Atcho, glaring wordlessly. Suddenly, he delivered a powerful punch to Atcho’s face, his knuckles striking between the eyes. Atcho reeled against the wall, blood trickling from his nose. His vision blurred.
Yermolov panted heavily. “Major Chekov, you redeemed yourself. General Kutuzov, confine these two. I’ll clean up. Then we can discuss.” He turned to Ivan. “Major, you’ll join us.”
***
“I understand,” Kutuzov told Yermolov in his office an hour later, “Major Chekov and Atcho came after you in Havana last year.”
Ivan sat next to Yermolov across the desk. “I did my duty.”
Kutuzov waved a hand. “Of course, and Atcho was the intended assassin.” Yermolov walked him through the details, then Kutuzov asked, “How did you, Comra
de Chekov, come to be working with them this time?”
“I did not work with them.” Ivan replied. “I was kidnapped, my death faked. I was coerced. Atcho’s idea was to get as close as possible to General Yermolov in Novosibirsk. We didn’t know the two of you had already linked up.”
Yermolov’s impatience showed. “I want to know three things: How did Atcho track me to the hill in Paris? How did he know we were coming to Novosibirsk? And how did he know to check out the Rasputin group in Novosibirsk?”
Ivan recounted what he knew. “I’m not clear on how he traced you to the hill in Paris. It had something to do with fish soup?” He intoned the statement as a question, and shrugged.
Yermolov growled, “I knew that soup was going to be trouble.”
Kutuzov reacted with curiosity.
“I’ll fill you in later,” Yermolov said, and turned back to Ivan. “Go on.”
As Ivan explained, Yermolov listened for indications of a leak within his own organization, particularly any that pointed at Drygin. They talked for hours, at the end of which Kutuzov exclaimed, “That is one hell of a story. Wish we had Atcho on our side. Rafael, too.”
“Atcho’s a bumbling fool,” Yermolov snapped. “I’ll interrogate him personally, then make sure he never interferes again.”
Kutuzov looked up sharply. “Do we need to be that extreme? We could trade him for one of our own held by the US.”
“Sometimes we must take hard actions,” Yermolov said slowly. “Atcho sees our situation as personal. He won’t rest until I’m dead. We need to remove the blight now.”
“May I offer an observation?” Ivan asked. When Yermolov nodded, he went on. “I’ve watched Atcho closely for the past several days, under pressure. He is both instinctual and logical. He weighs what he knows and then acts.” He addressed Yermolov. “You might have trained him to do that.”
