Rasputin's Legacy

by Lee Jackson

  The Emerging Resistance Leader in Camaguey

  (TS) The use of code-name “Atcho” raises curiosity. It is certainly not a common name in Cuba or even in Camaguey. Yet it is in Camaguey that the name emerges associated with a resistance leader. Following graduation from West Point, Eduardo Xiquez attended Ranger School, where he was an Honor Graduate. The resistance leader in Camaguey not only goes by the unusual code-name, but also exhibits remarkable skill, methods, and cunning that can only come from superior training. Without visibly revealing himself, he has already established firm working relations with our intelligence resources in Havana, and has conducted operations against the Castro regime that raised alarm. In one such operation, his group stole explosives without being detected, distributed them along the length of Cuba, and exploded government offices and munitions storage units simultaneously. He is already highly sought after by the Castro regime, and the name “Atcho” elicits fear among Cuban forces.

  (TS) Recommend that CIA pursue active contact with Atcho’s organization for future operations, including planning and executing the anticipated invasion of Cuba.

  UPDATES:

  (TS) 17 December 1960: An Air Force intelligence officer, Lieutenant Paul Clary, made direct contact with Atcho today. The resistance leader had been wounded in a firefight, was apparently in a severely weakened physical state, and was in no shape for further planning or coordination. There was mention that he was concerned for the safety of his 5-year-old daughter.

  (TS) 19 February 1961: A CIA officer coordinating preparations along the southern coast for the coming invasion of Cuba reports that he had direct, face-to-face contact with Atcho today. He appeared fully recovered, and agreed to take charge of combining the various local groups into a single, cohesive force, and training them to support the invasion. However, he stated that if news of his daughter surfaced, she would be his priority.

  (TS) 22 April 1961: Atcho disappeared during the battle at the Bay of Pigs, and is presumed dead.

  (TS) 14 April 1980: Wow! What a passage of time. This guy must have been a wheel back in the day. He’s resurfaced after 19 years, and the Cuban community in Miami has gone wild. President Carter negotiated a deal to let some political prisoners go, and this guy Atcho is at the top of the list. No one knew he was still alive. Apparently, he was held in prison for 19 years, and the Castro regime had not known his real identity. They had him locked up the whole time, and didn’t know it.

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  GLOSSARY

  GLASNOST: The term used to describe Mikhail Gorbachev’s policy of government transparency during the time that he was the General Secretary of the Communist Party in the Soviet Union. It was a policy that was vigorously opposed by Party hardliners. The word is very old in Russian usage, and had always referred to “the process.” Gorbachev coined the word to mean the process of encouraging and putting into effect a new practice of citizens to describe openly and publicly their problems with government and offering solutions.

  PERESTROIKA: The term used to describe Mikhail Gorbachev’s policy of restructuring the Soviet Communist Party, another policy opposed by Party hardliners. In practice, it allowed ministries to act with much greater autonomy than had previously been normal.

  NOTE: Practiced together, hardliners saw glasnost and perestroika represented an existential threat to the Soviet Union because they encouraged independent action and speaking out against government abuse.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are so many people to thank, beginning with my 5th, 6th, and 7th grade teacher, Irene Fisk (RIP), who forced academic excellence on me despite my most grievous attempts to avoid it. Then my beloved wife, Barbara, and our great kids, who suffered through keeping noise down in a cramped apartment while I eked out my first novel writing efforts.

  For RASPUTIN’S LEGACY, Carmine Zozzora has a special place in my heart. He did what a true friend should do: told me what was wrong with the book as written, and how to fix it. That began with, “Get and read THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE, and then apply it.” I was taken aback a bit, because I was sure I already knew how to write. I quickly learned that I had a lot still to learn. Carmine patiently mentored me through a year’s worth of structuring the story for better, more enjoyable reading. It is far superior to what it would have been without him. I was smart enough to listen; he had been the film producer of DIE HARD WITH A VENGEANCE and COLOR OF NIGHT. Not listening would have been foolhardy.

  When finally, I had passed Carmine’s muster, he sent me to editor Bill Thompson of Carrie and The Firm fame (by Stephen King and John Grisham, respectively). Bill was always so upbeat and encouraging, and he coaxed me through the final polish on the story. I also have to thank Charles Brandt, author of I HEARD YOU PAINT HOUSES (soon to be a major Martin Scorsese/Robert De Niro motion picture) for making the call to Bill. Then proofreader Stephanie Parent buffed it to a high gloss.

  Along the way, many good family members and friends provided moral support and/or read and re-read the manuscript versions, and offered exceptional advice. My brother, Bob called often to check on progress, offer encouragement, and express his confidence in the quality of the final product. My two sisters, Anita and Margee, caught details I had missed, and provided perceptions of reactions to characters and events in the book. John Shephard gave firsthand insights into the personality and character of our late, great president, Ronald Reagan which led directly to how various elements of the story were told. Another friend (who must remain anonymous) kept me on the credible side of CIA involvement and pointed me toward crucial information regarding Chinese history; NYT best-selling author Joe Galloway, Benghazi hero Kris “Tanto” Paronto, Lieutenant General (Retired) Rick Lynch, and West Virginia Secretary of State Mac Warner took time to read my manuscript and offer valuable comments and encouragement.

  A guess is that no manuscript is ever written without its own sets of mishaps, and in this case, it was almost catastrophic. Good friend Bob Cymbalski recovered my manuscript from the nether regions of lost digital files after I thought it was gone in its entirety, for good.

  Then there was a host of friends who read the manuscript and provided valuable insights: my son Christian (who advised that I review my dialogue); Tom Mitchell, Angela Beck, Barbara Hall, Bobby Hall (a jet pilot who sanity checked my description of landing procedures), Rich Trotter, Larry Acker, Rand Ballard, Sam Stolzoff, Jim Vaughn, Candy Silcott, Ralph Masi, John Dinnell, Lance Gatling, and Stuart Stirrat. Each contributed in a way that gave me an objective, three-dimensional view of my own work, and/or encouraged me to press on.

  Special mention must also go to Stuart Bache. He designed the spectacular cover for Rasputin’s Legacy. Stuart designed for some of the most notable authors, including Stephen King and John le Carré. He caught me at a particularly discouraging point, walked me through the elements of a good cover design, and then produced magnificent designs for me.

  My sincere gratitude goes out to these wonderful people who participated in one form or another to bringing Rasputin’s Legacy into publication.

  Another Book By The Author

  The Cold War. A backdrop to betrayal. A playground to power. When his daughter is kidnapped, Cuban-born, West Point Graduate Atcho must be a sleeper agent to men he'd rather kill. Atcho's rise opens doors into US National Defense even as a seemingly omniscient KGB officer holds unflinching sway over his actions. His pu
blic life clashes with secrets that only he and his tormentor share, isolating him in a world of intrigue among people whom he is determined not to betray. His choice: save his daughter, or save he world from nuclear holocaust.

  When the darkness of night is your only camouflage, you learn to Curse the Moon. Available now! (See Excerpt On Next Page.)

  Curse The Moon is the first book in Lee Jackson’s Cold War Series. If you have not already read it, find out here the details of how Atcho came to be.

  In the tradition of Robert Ludlum’s page-turner, The Bourne Identity, Atcho fights against overwhelming odds, bleeds when hurt, and won’t back down. Think: Jason Bourne meets Dr. Zhivago.

  To experience the violent intrigue of Cold War Cuba and Russia vs. the United States, get Curse The Moon today.

  CURSE THE MOOON

  (Excerpt)

  PROLOGUE

  On New Year’s Eve in 1959, Cuban President Fulgencio Batista fled the country in the face of an armed insurrection. Five days later, Fidel Castro entered Havana with Ché Guevara, and seized power. Initially greeted with an outpouring of popular support, Cubans soon learned that they had traded one dictator for another. Hailed as a liberator, Castro demonstrated cruelty and tyranny that eclipsed any known before on this island. Within a year, resistance groups sprang up around Cuba. They were led by patriots who were largely inexperienced but fearless in the cause of restoring freedom to Cuba.

  One was a man of unusual qualifications. The few who knew him called him Atcho.

  PART I

  1

  Cuba, December 1960

  Atcho slouched against a wall, alone in a small plaza illuminated by the dim yellow light of a single streetlamp. His eyes probed the surrounding darkness. His fine, aristocratic features were hidden behind a week’s growth of unkempt beard, while his normally well-groomed hair fell in shaggy brown locks below his ears.

  Since state Security Police, commonly referred to as milicianos, or G-2, had never seen Atcho, at least not as himself, they knew him only by reputation. Tonight, they would be looking for his messenger. Atcho’s ears strained for the sounds of approach. His powerful frame ached to be released from its tense stance.

  “For Isabel,” he muttered. In the light of the streetlamp, his silhouette stood out, an easy target. From behind a nearby wall, the first glimmer of the moon tinged the edge of the sky as it began its ascent. Soon, it would cast its ghostly glow about the square.

  Screeching tires around a nearby corner broke the silence. Atcho shrank even further into his loose-fitting clothes. He checked the inside of his left calf once more for the razor-sharp hunting knife strapped there. His face melted into dull callowness and his eyes became vacuous. He looked like a crude country peasant, nothing more.

  His mind raced as two Jeeps drove into view and stopped several yards away, spotting him in their headlights. Muscles tensed. Control! I must maintain control! His heart pounded and his temples pulsed. He felt adrenaline surge, but his face showed no expression.

  The driver of the first Jeep opened his door and stepped out. “Are you José?” he asked roughly.

  Atcho shuffled away from the wall, and moved forward, shoulders drooping. “Sí, Señor. I am José.”

  “Do you have something to tell me?”

  “Sí, Señor. Do you have a package for me?” Atcho smiled amiably.

  “Just tell me!” the driver retorted.

  “But my boss says I have to get a package first.”

  The driver delivered a brutal punch directly into Atcho’s belly. Atcho rolled with the blow and sank to the ground in pain. “Why did you do that?” he gasped. “I will be happy tell you. But my boss will kill me if I don’t get the package.”

  The driver’s boot connected with Atcho’s chin, sprawling him across the ground between the Jeeps. He squatted beside Atcho’s head. “José, you are going to tell us …” Leaving the threat unspoken, he grabbed Atcho by the hair and jerked his face close.

  “I want to tell you. But my boss will kill me if I don’t bring him what I came for!”

  “What’s in the package?”

  “I don’t know. My boss says I’ll know it when I see it.”

  “The driver studied him a moment then motioned with his hand. Two men immediately stepped from the first Jeep. The driver conferred with one, a lieutenant, while the other stood guard over Atcho. When they parted, the driver squatted next to Atcho’s head while the lieutenant moved back toward the second Jeep. “Soften him up a bit,” the lieutenant called, “while I speak to the captain.”

  Atcho’s guards seemed to relish their task. They pistol-whipped him, then threw him to the ground, and pounded his head and body with kicks. Again, they stood him up, and while one held him in a bear hug from the rear, the other punched his face over and over into a bloody pulp. Pain seared through him, and still the blows fell. First to his face, then to his stomach. When he dropped to the ground, they continued kicking. But, despite feeling life ebb from his body, Atcho offered only token resistance.

  The passenger door opened. The man from the first Jeep leaned inside, talking to the captain. Through bruised and squinted eyes, Atcho saw the glow of a cigarette from deep within the dark interior. He was unable to make out anything else.

  The driver and the other soldier finally stopped beating him. Atcho lay spread-eagle in the dust, eyes swollen and nearly shut, and lips split and bleeding. From beyond the square, dogs, hearing the sounds of violence, started barking madly. Atcho heard nearby apartment doors creaking on their hinges, and then soft thumps as they closed. Nobody wants to be part of this. His arms and legs felt limp, incapable of motion.

  The moon had moved high into the night sky and bathed the area in cold, white light, sharply contrasting buildings against their own shadows. Atcho slowly maneuvered his pain-racked head to watch the second vehicle. The G-2 milicianos spoke quietly by the Jeep.

  As he lay in the dust with warm drops of blood dripping out of multiple wounds from his head and arms, visions of previous tragedies floated before Atcho’s eyes. Columns of cadets in gray uniforms marched by. His late wife appeared, arms outstretched, eyes longing for the child she would never see. Then, dancing flames in a cold circle of moonlight consumed the pale figures of his parents. He felt himself waning, and shook his head. I’ve gotta be alert!

  Cruel visions continued, immersing him in waves of grief, but pain reminded him of his mission. He shook his head to clear it, and concentrated his attention on the second Jeep. The glow from inside was again visible. Occasionally, a ghost of a face peered through the windshield, then faded into the black interior.

  The murmur of voices was low and undulating. The shorter, sharper responses of the man next to the Jeep indicated the authority of the man inside. Believing Atcho incapacitated, the guards ignored him. With utmost stealth, he reached down alongside his leg. The knife was there, cold and hard, the leather sheath pressing against his leg. Atcho felt a surge of energy. He edged the knife from its sheath with his fingertips and inched it up under his body.

  A noise halted his movement. The Jeep door swung open and the dark figure of the captain emerged. He was tall, and wore a dark civilian overcoat and slouch hat. He strode toward Atcho. With a single motion, he grabbed a lock of hair and yanked Atcho’s head into the light. He stared into Atcho’s blurred eyes. Then, as if discarding a head of lettuce, he dropped Atcho’s face into the dirt.

  Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Atcho could not discern the captain’s features. He saw the officer stride back to the vehicle and swing into the passenger’s seat. The captain spoke a few words to the lieutenant, but hissed them too softly to make out. Then the Jeep door closed and the engine cranked to life.

  Atcho’s heart stopped. Still hiding the knife, he fought desperately to sit up.

  The lieutenant moved towards him. “You are fortunate tonight, José.” He spoke in menacing, mocking tones. “The Russian, Captain Govorov, has let you live for a while. We’ll take yo
u to a nice hotel to rest and enjoy our company – until you tell us what we want to know.”

  “I will tell you!” Atcho yelled. “Right now, I will tell you! Please don’t hurt me again,” he sobbed into the ground. He turned his head to watch the lieutenant, who waved his hand. The Jeep’s engine cut off. Relief spread through his pain-wracked body. Silence settled heavily over the night. The moon looked down, uncaring.

  “All right, coward,” the lieutenant said. “Tell us.”

  “OK, I will tell you. But, can’t I at least see the package? Atcho will think I lied to him if I don’t bring it back with me. Then he will kill me, move his headquarters, and you will have nothing.”

  At mention of the name Atcho, the lieutenant’s face became grave and hard. His mocking tone ebbed. “How will you know if it’s the right package?”

  “Atcho said I would know it when I saw it. Please, can’t I see it? Or he’ll know that I talked to you to keep you from killing me.”

  The lieutenant looked thoughtful, then walked over to the captain’s Jeep. More conversation took place. Then Captain Govorov’s tall, lean figure stepped out again with an indistinguishable bundle. Keeping his face in shadows, he strode closer to Atcho, and leaned over. When he straightened, a much smaller figure stood beside him – the shape of a 4-year-old girl.