by Lee Jackson
Atcho reacted angrily. “That’s really none of your business.”
“But you did go to New York.”
Realizing his tacit admission, Atcho stared at Collins and started to rise.
“One more question,” the reporter said. “What can you tell me about the retired CIA officer who took care of your burglary with the cops?”
Atcho almost bolted to his feet. Then, he leaned back and scrutinized the journalist. He felt fatigue settling in. “I did some checking on you. Your reputation is admirable.” He spoke with reluctance. “I have a proposition.”
“You checked me out?” Collins was startled. Then he looked skeptical. “You have a proposition?”
“Yes.” Atcho’s voice acquired an insistent note. “Postpone your investigation for five months. In return I’ll give you an exclusive interview about a fascinating story.”
Collins rubbed his eyes. “We’re both tired from too much travel.”
Atcho considered him, puzzled.
Collins contemplated how best to state what was on his mind. “Did you ever watch High Noon?”
Atcho stared at him, and then started to rise dismissively.
“No, wait,” Collins entreated him. “I asked because you remind me of Gary Cooper’s character in that movie. Strong, moral, restrained, and carrying the world on your shoulders. Yet, like him, you walk every step with the potential to unleash holy hell, any instant.”
“What’s your point?” Atcho asked irritably.
“Your credentials. They’re incredible. West Point, Airborne Ranger, Cuban anti-Castro fighter,” Collins recited. “Now, a real estate mogul and honored by the president.” He paused in thought, and started to continue.
Atcho interrupted him. “How is that relevant?”
“Just an observation,” Collins rejoined. He remained silent a moment, and then fixed a steady gaze on Atcho. “Something happened on Pennsylvania Avenue during Gorbachev’s visit,” he said, “and you’re involved.”
They watched each other.
Atcho broke the silence. “Where does that leave us?” he growled, anger flaring beneath the surface. “What do you think happened on Pennsylvania Avenue?”
Collins did not have a ready answer. He ran his fingers over the cover of Rasputin’s biography. “I don’t know, but I decide which stories I publish and when, and to be blunt, your proposal doesn’t offer much.”
He glanced at the book about Rasputin. Atcho’s intense interest in it so soon after travel, when he was obviously very tired, seemed strange. Collins tucked the observation into the back of his mind. “Here’s a counteroffer,” he said. “If you tell me now how those events tie together—the building where the shot was fired, the MiG, your trip to New York –and if I judge there to be a national security risk, I’ll hold on to the story until a better time.”
Atcho glared at him.
“You can throw in the facts of that burglary,” Collins pursued, “and tell me about the CIA guy.”
Atcho slid his chair back. “You live in a fantasy world,” he spat out. “I thought you might be interested in a factual story. Apparently, I was wrong.” He grasped the book and stood.
Collins rose from his seat. “I have a job to do.” He squinted at Atcho. “There’s a story swirling around you. I’m going to find out what it is.”
Atcho turned on his heel, leaving Collins standing alone. He went to the checkout counter, and signed out the Rasputin biography.
Collins watched as Atcho made his way to the street and hailed a cab. Then he went to the card catalog to get the specifics of the Rasputin book.
Atcho gave the taxi driver his home address. He craved sleep, but was angry that he had been seen on Long Island, and that he had confirmed for Collins that he was a principal in an important story.
He recalled how Burly had described the reporter: a bulldog. And now with a fresh bone under his nose. He tapped the driver on the shoulder and redirected him to Burly’s house.
Chapter 6
Burly was reading in his study when Atcho arrived. “What’s up?” He gestured to a seat.
Holding nothing back, Atcho told Burly of his second meeting with “that reporter,” including the new fact that Collins knew of a retired CIA officer “taking care of the burglary.” The old intelligence pro listened intently until Atcho was finished, then sat quietly. At last, slowly, he raised his eyebrows. “You sure attract the tough ones. What do you think Collins has on his mind?”
“He’ll investigate. That’s what he does. I must consider worst case. He thinks there was an assassination attempt and that I might be one of the shooters. He won’t back off, especially now that he thinks there’s a CIA officer involved.”
“Retired.”
“That won’t matter to Collins.”
“How do you plan on handling it?”
“I haven’t had time to put ideas together. I hoped you’d have some.”
“Does that mean you’re taking the mission?”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it. Let’s get on with it.”
“Right. We have to step up our timetable and get you out of Collins’ line of sight. He won’t let go.”
They agreed that Paris was the place to start. That was where Yermolov was seen and the location of the group that Burly suspected of financing him. Burly committed to coordinating arrangements and having the required documents for Atcho to travel early the next morning.
“You’ll need an alias.”
Atcho nodded. “And someone who knows his way around Russia, someone who can get me in and back out. I was thinking Ivan. Do you know where he is?”
Burly’s eyes widened. “Ivan? He’s KGB.”
“I don’t know anyone else who can get the job done.”
“He’s probably still here in Washington. I’ll check it out. How do you expect to make this work?”
“Call Rafael Arteaga in Miami.” He explained his idea.
Burly looked skeptical. “You think Rafael can pull that off?”
“He’s been our go-to guy for a long time.” He reminded Burly what the former resistance fighter had done at the Battle of the Bay of Pigs and how he had set up security around Atcho’s family under the noses of the KGB and the Secret Service last year.
Burly protested. “You’re proposing something that can’t be done.”
“Agreed,” Atcho snapped, “and neither can this mission. If anyone can grab Ivan, it’s Rafael. Then you’ll send Ivan to me.”
After several iterations of back and forth, Burly acceded. “I’ll have things ready so you can leave in the morning, including someone to double for you on a flight to Austin. Collins will be watching. One other thing, you’ll stay in a safe house in Paris with secure commo gear there. Make sure you talk to me only over that equipment. Here’s the number to use.” He handed Atcho a slip of paper with the address of the safe house.
After hashing through details, they drove to Sofia’s house. “What are you going to tell her? She’s still in the intelligence game, and I’m not her only contact. If I stonewall, she’ll know something’s up.”
Atcho agreed. “There’s a tech company in Austin that I’ve thought of buying. It produces a highly classified power source. The defense industry is crazy about the technology. I’ll have to get involved up to my eyeballs to come up to speed technologically, including going there for due diligence. That could give me an alibi.”
“That’s interesting,” Burly said. “What can you say about the company?”
“Not much. I had to sign my life away with nondisclosure agreements. The technology is still experimental. They only have two products. One is a power source. That’s the moneymaker. It has the same applications as batteries, but is more reliable, costs less, and pound for pound, is a lot more powerful.”
“That’s huge,” Burly said. “Sounds great, especially since Defense already wants it. What’s the other product?”
“It’s a limited use byproduct. It’s a nuke exte
rminator. We call it the NukeX. If it works, it’s incredible. The power source heats the NukeX thousands of degrees instantly, and it concentrates the heat through special alloys onto a target several inches below its base. Those alloys, how they concentrate the heat, and how the power source works are the nubs of their proprietary secret technology.”
Burly’s curiosity was piqued. “What’s it used for?”
“You put it on the casing of a nuclear device, and it’ll melt the parts needed to start the reaction to explode the bomb. It’s supposed to do that without setting it off, even if it’s been activated.”
Burly was incredulous. “Nuclear missiles move fast. How do you get it on there?”
The corners of Atcho’s mouth turned up slightly. “It’s like the idea of a laser aimed at a missile, but there’s been concern about small nuclear devices coming into the country in briefcases. If a bomb squad can get to the bomb in time, the NukeX is supposed to stop it from going off without opening it and cutting wires.”
“Wow! That’s amazing. How does it work?”
Atcho mulled how best to explain. “Think of a match. You strike it, and it immediately heats to somewhere around twenty-two hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Essentially, the NukeX strikes an electronic match and then maintains and focuses the heat at that high temperature through those alloys into the nuclear device, until you switch it off. It’s easy to use, just a small handheld device that you slap on the bomb over the trigger mechanism, and hold it there. You push a button, and it melts the system enough to make it useless.”
Burly thought about that. “Sounds plausible,” he mused. “Anyway, it should give you an alibi to get out of town.”
Atcho looked grim. “I know that Sofia came to you for help in the Yermolov thing last year when we all thought he was Govorov. Keep her out of this. Thankfully, she’s an intelligence analyst, and not a field officer.”
Burly looked at him sharply, but only nodded.
They shook hands in front of Sofia’s house. As Burly’s car disappeared around the corner, Atcho wondered if he would ever see his big friend again.
Late that afternoon, Atcho watched through Sofia’s living room window as she parked her car and proceeded up the walkway. Dread mingled with the pleasure of seeing her.
Sofia spotted him, and her green eyes sparkled over a brilliant smile. She stepped up her pace. Her shoulder-length brown hair bounced around her finely sculpted face.
Atcho met her on the porch. “My Yale-educated beauty,” he quipped as they embraced.
Sofia gave him a sidelong glance. “That was a strange greeting. What a surprise. I thought you’d be resting. How was your trip?”
Atcho chided himself for allowing anxiety to seep in. “It was a bust,” he said, doing his best to be upbeat. “I was thinking that your background might be helpful in a new project, that’s why the greeting. I talked with some people about that power source company in Austin. It’s shaping up like a real opportunity.”
Sofia stared at him momentarily, but said nothing.
“I’m flying out tomorrow to take a first look,” he continued.
“So soon?” she asked, her face surprised.
“Yeah. The technology is complex, and several companies want it. If I don’t get on it, I won’t have a chance.”
“But you’re in the real estate business.”
“I know. I’ve wanted to diversify out. My contacts in the defense industry make this a good entry point. The company is still small enough for me to absorb, but it will take a lot of time and study.”
Sofia gazed at him quizzically, and then seemed to shake off her thoughts. “Let’s make dinner.” She took Atcho’s hand and led him through tastefully appointed rooms to the kitchen. While they cooked, she studied him.
They dined by candlelight, and then sipped Château Margaux in front of the fireplace. Dim lights and the soft strains of a Cuban bolero warmed the romantic atmosphere.
“You’re tense,” Sofia interrupted the quiet. “What’s wrong?”
He smiled. “I’m tired, and I’m concerned about this transaction. I might bite off more than I can chew.” He almost mentioned the burglary, but thought better of it.
“How long will you be gone?”
Atcho breathed deeply. “I don’t know, a few weeks at least. It’ll probably take several trips.”
Sofia sat erect. Her eyes searched his. “That’ll push right up against our wedding.”
Atcho nodded, dismayed. “We might have to postpone.”
Sofia was silent. She studied his face. “Tell me what’s going on.” Her normally musical voice flattened to matter-of-fact.
“It’s a complicated transaction,” Atcho protested. “I’ve never been involved in one this big and with such advanced technology. I need to stay on top of it.”
She searched his expression. “That makes no sense. You can’t take off a day for your wedding? The honeymoon can wait.”
Atcho shook his head.
Sofia continued to study him. Then she sat back abruptly. “Do you know who you’re talking to?” When he began to object, she held up a hand. “Darling, I know you, your past, your attitudes, and what you can do. I saw your look when I came through the door. Something else is going on.”
Atcho tried to hold her steady gaze, but felt himself faltering.
“There are only two times that something kept us apart,” Sofia said slowly, “and both times you had similar attitudes.” Her eyes opened wide. “It’s Govorov again, isn’t it?” She sat back. “That’s it! I thought he was dead.”
She doesn’t know about Govorov’s real name. When Atcho did not respond, she pulled back into silence. “You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?” she asked after a time. When Atcho still did not respond, she softened, but her face was resolute. She reached forward and stroked his face. “I’ll be okay,” she said. “Can I see you to the airport?”
“I’m afraid not,” Atcho muttered, unnerved by her calmness.
Sofia leaned into him. For several minutes, neither spoke. Then Sofia straightened. She wiped moisture from one eye. “I’ll take care of canceling the wedding arrangements. We can reset later. Let’s not talk about this anymore now.”
At dawn, Atcho rose and showered. When he was dressed, he went into the kitchen. Sofia was already there in a white terrycloth robe. Dark circles ringed her eyes. She stood and wrapped her arms around Atcho’s neck. He felt her controlled sobs against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.”
A car honked. “That’s my cab,” Atcho said hoarsely.
“Where’s your luggage?”
Atcho hesitated. “I’ll pick it up on the way.”
She looked askance, and then embraced him again. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Come back to me safely.”
“This is just a business transaction.” He was gruff. He kissed her, and walked down to the car Burly had sent. Settling into the rear, he looked back at the town house. Sofia stood in the window. She waved to him, and then disappeared into the interior.
Two hours later, Atcho sank into a seat on a plane bound for New York. Prior to takeoff, he had changed his appearance in a VIP lounge. He walked out in time to see a double of himself move through the boarding gate of a plane bound for Austin, and watched in amusement as Collins followed, ticket in hand.
Atcho would change disguises and planes in New York. There, he boarded his flight to Paris. As the jet raced into the skies, he closed his eyes. How did I get in the middle of this again? His thoughts turned to Sofia. She had been too self-possessed for a woman who thought her world might be coming apart. He tried to sleep, but current pressures and past nightmares of his childhood home in flames and the stench of burning flesh roiled together to jar him awake every time he dozed. Paris seemed an eternity away.
At roughly the time that Atcho’s plane took off across the Atlantic, Collins disembarked in Austin. Careful to recede into the crowd, he
trailed the man he thought was Atcho through the broad corridors into the main lobby. To his confusion, the man did not seem hurried.
Fifteen minutes later, Collins cursed under his breath. When the man he thought was Atcho did not come out of a restroom and he found it empty, he knew he had been duped. He took the notebook from his pocket and reviewed his scribbling. Minutes later, his annoyance receded.
He called his editor, Tom Jakes, and explained what had just happened. “I wasn’t even sure that was Atcho on Long Island,” he told Jakes. “And those bits of information I gave him seemed farfetched. But he’s trying to ditch me. And he’s got very professional help.” He chuckled.
“What do you think is going on?” Jakes asked.
“Something happened in DC when Gorbachev visited last time. The story got past the press. There’s a feel of cover-up, and now there’s this retired CIA guy involved.”
“Do you suspect Atcho of trying to kill Gorbachev?”
“Or trying to cover up an attempt? I don’t know. If Atcho were the assassin, why would he be at the estate with Reagan and Gorbachev? Doesn’t add up.”
A thought crossed Collins’ mind. He explained his encounter with Atcho in the library the day before. “Find that author,” he said, referring to Rasputin’s biography. “Have someone read that book. I want to know about any references that might have current significance.”
Two hours later, Jakes called back. “We located the author,” he said, “but she was uncooperative. Someone else already inquired and must have spooked her. We’ll keep working on it.”
“Fine,” he replied. “I’m coming back to Washington.”
Chapter 7
After Sofia saw Atcho’s taxi drive off, she poured a cup of coffee and sipped it, staring absently. After some moments, she reached into her robe pocket and pulled out a crinkled piece of paper. She flattened it and gazed at the words, written in her own handwriting.
