The Domino Conspiracy

by Joseph Heywood

  At about 9:00 P.M. the arcade’s shops began to close, the crowd thinned, and the woman began to pack up. The infant was androgynous, filthy and silent, making pitiful sounds from time to time, usually when a mark was near. Trained and programmed like Pavlov’s dog, he guessed. Did she use pain or pleasure?

  “Hey, gadjo,” the woman said as he approached. “You been watchin’ me all day, eh?” She spoke with an accent he couldn’t place. Her voice was soft, though there was no doubt about the challenge she had hurled at him. “Nosy or what?”

  “Just interested.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “In what, a starving woman fallen on hard times? You look like you got enough trouble taking care of you.” She extended her hand in an age-old gesture.

  “Likes attract,” he said. “You won’t get something for nothing from me.”

  “Hey, you want a prostitute, go to Central Station. Plenty of them over there. Real beauties.” She contorted her face in a hag’s mask.

  “Do I look like the sort to pay for it?”

  She stood up, set the baby on her hip and smiled. “Every man pays for it. Most don’t know it, but they always pay.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

  “You’re a hard woman.”

  “Life is severe, gadjo, and we have to be equal to it.” When she walked away, he followed. It was raining outside, the downpour coming in heavy sheets, the gutters filled with rushing water, the dark streets shiny, with few streetlights. The woman shielded the child’s head with a newspaper and walked steadily at a brisk pace.

  After two blocks she pivoted without warning and tried to sweep his legs with a low judo move, but Frash stepped over the kick, grabbed her by the arm and pushed her against the wall, only to find a knife point set firmly against the soft flesh under his chin. Her smile showed perfect white teeth. He raised his hands to show he was not resisting. “You have pretty good reflexes, gadjo.” She was watching his reaction. “What’s your game?” The pressure of the knife point increased.

  “A place to sleep and eat,” he said. “I can pay.”

  “You know what I am?”

  “Rom,” he said. “Just about anything for a price.” He had known Gypsies in Boston.

  She lowered the knife, pushed him away and grinned. “You have nerve for a gadjo. You got a problem with the law, eh?”

  “Does that mean yes?” he asked.

  “You can pay cash?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll think about it. First I have to return the child.”

  “Not yours?”

  “Leased,” she said. “Cheap.”

  After nearly two kilometers they turned into a street filled with soot-covered tenements. “Wait here,” she said as she went inside. The area was strangely silent, and she was gone more than half an hour. When she returned, the baby was gone, as was the dirt; she was wearing clean clothes. “Worried, gadjo?”

  “I’m still here.”

  They walked another block and got into a new black Fiat. “The life of a Rom is not so bad,” he said, admiring the automobile.

  “Outside the majority’s rule, you understand?” She smiled.

  He did. It was his credo as well.

  They drove north out of the city, and after passing through an area of small farms pulled into a grove of trees, stopping beside a small Airstream caravan. She went in first and flicked on the light.

  She may be a Gypsy, Frash thought, but her standard of living is in the modern world. “No horses?”

  “The Rom must live in the world as it presents itself.”

  “Do you have a name?” he asked.

  “Would it matter?” She motioned for him to enter. “I have a hundred names but they mean nothing. If it makes you feel better, call me Kenya.”

  “Like the country?”

  “Yes, a primitive country awaiting exploration.”

  “Perhaps I intend to steal your national secrets.” Albert knew that European Gypsies frequently made illegal border crossings. It was Ali’s job to find a way to benefit from such knowledge and get them closer to Kennedy. The only question now was where.

  “A secret is nothing more than a ploy to increase the price,” Kenya said.

  138WEDNESDAY, MAY 3, 1961, 7:40 A.M.Odessa

  Perevertkin saw Chelitnikov in gray coveralls on top of the helicopter. Neither man acknowledged the other. They had already had their conversation.

  The helicopter’s copilot was squatting about fifty meters in front of the craft, smoking a thin green cigar, tracing circles in the dust on the tarmac with his forefinger. “What’s the problem?” Perevertkin asked by way of a greeting.

  “Just another precautionary check,” the lieutenant colonel said. “These heaps have a habit of coming apart in flight. If Moscow replaced the defective parts, this shit would be unnecessary.”

  “We’re not like the Americans,” Perevertkin said. “We must make do with what we have.”

  “If the rotor housing gives way while we’re flying, you may sing a different song, comrade.”

  The deputy director of the KGB tried to shift the conversation. “It looks like good flying weather.”

  “Fair, foul, who cares?” the lieutenant colonel said without looking up. “They pay me to fly when it has to be done, not just when I’m in the mood.”

  “You know who I am?” Perevertkin whispered.

  “To my great misfortune.”

  Perevertkin smiled. “Black-market violations are punishable by death.”

  “I sold cigars, not national secrets.”

  “You rationalize, but I deal with facts. Principles count. You sold five thousand cigars stolen from the state, but you’re a lucky man. When the crime came to my attention we thought your general was behind it.”

  “Babadzhanyan is an honest man,” the copilot growled. “What I did was by and for myself.”

  “Thanks to your candor, we now know that with certainty. Is that so bad? You’re your general’s guardian angel. If he knew, he’d thank you for keeping his record spotless.”

  “If he knew I had trouble with the KGB, he’d chop off my head and spit into my neck.”

  “But you’re married to his niece.”

  “I am where I am because I’m a good pilot. If I was a bad pilot and his eldest son it would get me nowhere. My general rewards performance, not wet kisses on his ass.”

  Perevertkin put his hand on the copilot’s shoulder, but he pushed it away. “Your general is lucky to arouse such loyalty in his men.”

  “Fuck off. I gave you what you wanted, but I don’t have to pretend to like it.”

  Perevertkin changed tones. “This thing eats at you.”

  “Like a cancer in my belly.”

  “Would you like to be free of it?”

  The copilot looked at the KGB general. “How?”

  “One final favor and you’ll hear no more from us. Your record will be pristine.”

  “What is it this time?”

  “We believe that the Americans are monitoring our surface-to-air missile tests,” Perevertkin said. “We’ve devised a way to verify it. Today’s test has been arranged to find out once and for all.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Before your second flight today we want you to set your radio to a certain radio frequency. Make two transmissions.” Perevertkin gave him the frequency.

  “That’s all?”

  “As clear as the palm of one’s hand.”

  “When do I make these calls?”

  “At any time during your second flight. When is entirely up to you.”

  “No special interval?”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “And for this I’m off the KGB’s horns?”

  “You’ll have a clean bill of health, your political cancer will be gone, and your general will never be the wiser.”

  The copilot stood up. “How do I know this is the truth?”

  “You don’t.”

  An
honest response. “Agreed.”

  Perevertkin was pleased. General Babadzhanyan was linked to the KGB’s special funds, which meant he had to die. When the general was ready to return to Odessa tonight, he would find an excuse not to be with him. When Babadzhanyan’s helicopter departed, the general’s personal copilot would unknowingly serve as the instrument of death. It had been an intricate dance to get this far, but perhaps the end was now in sight. Babadzhanyan would die and that would tie up another loose end. When Perevertkin returned to Odessa, he would make sure that Chelitnikov the bomb maker was also permanently removed. Malinovsky had assured him that all of this was designed to bring Khrushchev down, and that in return for his services he would have Shelepin’s top position at the KGB. Better late than never. The position should have been his before Shelepin, who was an amateur. If all this worked out, what was rightfully his would finally be his for real. The surprise was that Malinovsky seemed to be the architect of the plot. Like everybody else in Moscow, Perevertkin had been certain that Malinovsky was Khrushchev’s handpicked yes man—which, he reminded himself, showed once again that nothing in the Kremlin was as it seemed to be. He would remember that when he was head of the KGB.

  “Fly carefully,” Perevertkin told the copilot, who simply grunted as he sought to relight his cigar.

  “You,” the copilot bellowed to the mechanic climbing down from the chopper. “Is this going to take all day?”

  The mechanic held up two fingers and smiled. “Two minutes, Colonel, and you’re on your way.”

  139WEDNESDAY, MAY 3, 1961, 1:00 P.M.Odessa

  Bailov dropped a parachute and harness at Melko’s feet. “What’s that?” the urka asked.

  “Vertical transportation,” Bailov said. “Think of it as a kind of elevator.”

  Melko studied the parachute for a moment, then pushed it away with his foot and looked up at the Spetsnaz colonel. “Not me,” he said with a nervous grin.

  “Put it on,” Bailov ordered.

  Loose ends sometimes came together in mysterious ways. Perevertkin, the KGB deputy director, was scheduled to attend a missile test at the Nikolayev SAM Proving Ground today. His host would be General Babadzhanyan, former commander of the late Colonel Gaponov. Perevertkin, they knew, was part of the special interagency committee that reviewed and approved all high-level special assignments, and Trubkin, Gaponov and Okhlopkin had no doubt all been cleared by it. Today Talia would confront Shelepin with these facts. Ezdovo would take control of the KGB bomb-making factory outside Odessa, and Bailov would lead a contingent of his men against Perevertkin’s contingent at the proving ground. The grand plan had been mapped by Talia, and neither Khrushchev nor Petrov had been informed. “Until now we’ve tried to fill the basket one fruit at a time,” she told the group. “Now we’ll to shake the trees and see what falls out.”

  When Gnedin answered, “It may be us,” none of them laughed.

  General Babadzhanyan was not in Odessa. He had flown his helicopter east to Nikolayev to observe the missile firing at the range; Perevertkin was with him. Bailov had three aircraft in formation, with two hundred men in them ready for a parachute drop. It was the real thing at last, and he could see by the faces of the men in his group that they were ready. Yepishev had come up with a map of the isolated proving ground. The place was too spread out and most of the terrain too jagged to make a surprise ground assault, so he had decided to do what his troops did best. The men would zero in on the main observation bunker at the center of the complex; they would jump at an altitude of one hundred and fifty meters and overwhelm the target before those on the ground even knew that there was an assault. They would grab Babadzhanyan and Perevertkin, put them on one of the helicopters flying behind the drop birds and spirit them away. The planes would return to Odessa to wait for them there. While Bailov’s group assaulted the proving ground, Ezdovo and fifty men in trucks would secure the demolition laboratory outside Odessa.

  All the briefings had been completed. From now on there would be radio silence. Bailov moved among his men, helping them check their equipment, giving words of encouragement, reminding them of their specific tasks ahead.

  Melko had put on his harness and chute but had not sufficiently tightened his straps. Bailov showed him how to do it. “Is this really necessary?” the urka asked.

  The colonel patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, comrade. If it doesn’t work, we’ll give you another one.”

  Melko was not amused.

  140WEDNESDAY, MAY 3, 1961, 2:35 P.M.SAM Proving Ground, Nikolayev Oblast

  Babadzhanyan thought Kolpakchi’s idea typically stupid, but Kolpakchi was chief of combat training for the General Staff and this missile firing was a political exercise, not a military one. The SA-3 surface-to-air missiles had been fired hundreds of times, but when General Perevertkin, deputy chairman of the KGB, suddenly expressed an inexplicable interest in a personal demonstration, Kolpakchi had seen an opportunity to make political hay, and it had fallen to Babadzhanyan to arrange the show. A prop-driven drone would be sent over the course at four thousand meters; for the SA-3 a hit on a slow-moving target like this was a 100 percent probability, no more difficult than trying to hit a barn wall with a howitzer placed inside it.

  Though it was a needless imposition, the commander of the Odessa Military District had taken great pains to ensure the demonstration’s success, but now Kolpakchi had suggested that they get a better view; he wanted to go up in the helicopter to observe, and this concerned the general. During the flight from Odessa to Nikolayev, Babadzhanyan had noticed an odd vibration in the main rotor. All the instruments had functioned normally and the controls had responded properly, but he could sense a problem about to assert itself. Good pilots learned to anticipate trouble before it materialized. All old pilots were good pilots, and Babadzhanyan was among the oldest and most experienced in the Red Army. He argued briefly with Kolpakchi about the need for an unscheduled flight, but in the end he acquiesced. It was within his right as aircraft commander to refuse to fly an unsafe vehicle, but what could he say was wrong? The problem was in his instincts, and these would not suffice. The odd thing was that Perevertkin seemed to share his concerns because Kolpakchi’s suggestion made him turn white and he began making excuses. In the end, however, Kolpakchi had pushed the KGB man aboard.

  Babadzhanyan checked his watch as the rotor began turning. The drone would be in the target area in seven minutes; the missile would be launched one minute later. He turned to his copilot. “How long since our last autogyration?”

  “January, Comrade General. You made the landing. Permission to switch frequencies?”

  “Why?”

  “Static on this one,” the lieutenant colonel lied. “I’ll inform the command post that we’re going off primary.” Perevertkin had instructed him to change frequencies during the second flight, which meant now. It would be good to get the KGB off his back once and for all.

  The general’s earphones seemed clear, but it was a routine request. “Go ahead, but if we lose power I’ll take it.” The rotor was cutting the air with heavy whacks now, the helicopter bouncing against its shock absorbers. “Clear our right.”

  “Starboard is clear,” the copilot shouted across the cockpit.

  “Ready for takeoff,” he radioed to the command post. One radio call done, one to go and he would be free.

  The general glanced left. “Also clear to the left. Here we go.” The helicopter vibrated as the copilot shifted the rotor’s pitch and began a slow, forward assent.

  Suddenly Perevertkin appeared between the two pilots, screaming, “Don’t use the radio!”

  “Airborne,” the copilot broadcast, and then was engulfed in white light.

  141WEDNESDAY, MARCH 3, 1961, 2:38 P.M.SAM Proving Ground, Nikolayev, Oblast

  Bailov was floating under his canopy when the helicopter lifted off. He watched the silver craft start a climb up a low ridge, then assumed his landing position and struck the ground. The sky was filled wit
h chutes and the clatter of equipment. He heard the scream of the target drone just before the missile drove into its port engine and turned the ancient aircraft into a cascading fireball. As debris was blown into fiery arcs there was another explosion above the ridge and Bailov saw another fireball, followed by a curl of thick black smoke from the trees.

  On the ground his men shed their canopies and ran off in files to secure their objectives as he used hand signals to move them.

  Melko was beside Bailov when he smashed through the door of the observation building. Inside they found a dozen surprised civilians and military personnel. “Where’s Babadzhanyan?” Bailov shouted, brandishing his Kalashnikov.

  “In the helicopter,” a major said, pointing at the fire-covered ridge.

  Bailov held out his hand and his radioman handed him the mike. “Gladiators, this is Centurion. Stick Five, secure the observation building; Stick Six, provide cover. All other groups converge on the ridge and set up a perimeter around the crash area. The downed chopper is our objective. Move now. Centurion out.” He handed the microphone back as they ran out of the building. Shit.

  There were no survivors. The wreckage was not badly scattered, but there had been a flash fire inside. One section had seven bodies still strapped in their seats, their flesh black, their clothes burned away. The stench was overpowering. Parts of other bodies were stuck to aircraft parts.

  “Dig in,” Bailov told his men over the radio. “If anybody tries to move anything out of this area, shoot him. Nothing is to be touched until I say so.” One disaster after another.

  Melko returned to the observation building with him. “Who was in the helicopter with Babadzhanyan?” he asked a nervous colonel.

  “There’s no manifest,” the colonel said. “It was an unscheduled flight. We’ll have to call the roll.”

  “Then do it,” Bailov snapped. “Now!” They had been so close.