CURSE THE MOON (28 page)

Shortly before midnight, he and his escort arrived at his apartment. While his guards made themselves comfortable in the living room, he fell wearily into bed. My assignment must be close, he thought. They’re not letting me out of their sight!

He reached down by the nightstand and felt his briefcase. Inside was the cellular telephone Burly had provided. He wanted to find out if Rafael had succeeded in the first part of the rescue plan. But since the room was probably bugged, he could not call on either the portable phone, or the one on his nightstand.

Wondering if his companions were really asleep, he stared around his darkened room. He had lived in this apartment since arriving in Washington. Despite his wealth, it was sparsely furnished. Decorating had seemed a useless exercise. Yet now, he thought of the stately elegance of General Clary’s house. He contrasted the warmth and charm of Sofia’s townhouse to the bare walls and floor of his own abode. For a moment, he forgot about his future, and merely longed to stop living like a hermit. Then, despite himself, he dozed.

The harsh ring of the room telephone jarred him awake. “Atcho, it’s good to have you safely back in Washington.”

“What now, Govorov?” Atcho switched on the lamp by his bed. On impulse, he reached for his briefcase.

“I was pleased with reports of your marksmanship.”

“That’s great. Now are you going to let me sleep?” He fumbled to open the attaché case, hoping the men in the living room remained there.

“I’m surprised at you. You’re usually so anxious to find out about your mission. Aren’t you curious?”

“Why did you take that first rifle away?”

Govorov laughed softly. “I’d have thought that would be obvious,” he said. “We needed to insert it where you’ll need it while no one is around.”

“I don’t care to shoot anyone, Govorov. I’m not a murderer.” Moving the cellular phone where he could see it, he tapped out Burly’s number.

“You didn’t have any problem taking care of that squad in Cuba,” Govorov said. “And I saw what you did to that lieutenant in Havana. Remember? You stuck him with a knife.”

“Those circumstances were different. And you know it.”

Through the cellular phone, he heard Burly’s line ringing. In the other room, a chair scraped. Come on, Burly!

“Enough of this chatter,” Govorov said. “I promised you a worthy mission. Would you like to hear what it is?”

“No. Keep it to yourself.”

On the other phone, Burly spoke. “Hello.”

On the room phone, Govorov affected a jocular tone in his hoarse, whispery voice, “Now Atcho. Is that any way to act after waiting all these years?”

“Atcho, is that you?” Burly asked on the second phone.

Atcho covered the mouthpiece on Govorov’s line. “Yes,” he said to Burly. “Move!”

“What?”

“I said move!” He heard Burly inhale sharply. Outside the bedroom door, footsteps approached. Cold sweat broke out on Atcho’s forehead.

“Understood!” Burly said. “So far, everything has progressed according to plan.”

“Atcho, are you there?” Govorov asked impatiently.

“I’m here.” Heart beating furiously, he replaced the receiver of the cell phone and shoved the entire unit beneath his blankets. “As we speak,” he said sarcastically, “my companions are paying me a midnight visit.”

The door swung open, and one of the guards appeared. Rubbing his eyes, he regarded Atcho dubiously.

“It’s Govorov.” Atcho held the receiver toward the man. “Do you want to talk to him?”

The guard took the receiver and spoke into it. A moment later, he handed it back, left the room, and closed the door behind him.

Atcho breathed a silent sigh of relief. “May I go now?” he asked.

“Atcho,” Govorov’s tone was stern. “You’re being far too flippant. I must warn you that we expect performance, or you will watch your daughter die.”

Atcho suddenly felt very calm, and deathly deliberate. “All right, Govorov. What is it?”

He heard the general take a deep breath on the other end of the line. “You know that our premier is here to sign the disarmament agreement?”

“Yes. So?”

“Well, not everyone in the Soviet Union thinks the treaty is in our best interest.”

“What am I supposed to do, shoot our own president?”

Silence.

Dread coiled in Atcho’s stomach, snaked into his chest, and then coursed through each fiber of his body until every muscle had been drawn tight. “Is that it?” he whispered. “You want me to assassinate the president of the United States? You want me to kill Ronald Reagan?”

“No, Atcho,” Govorov hissed. “Your president will be in office only another year. Nothing would be gained by removing him. No, you will shoot – and kill – the Premier of the Soviet Union.”

PART XIII

40

There was no more sleep for Atcho that night. Nerves on edge, survival instinct honed to a knife-like edge, he lay flat on his back staring into the darkness. Hours dragged while his mind darted, ferret-like. Almost immediately after Govorov hung up, he had dared discovery and redialed Burly’s number on the cellular phone. Whispering his inquiries, he had learned that Rafael’s men were in position. Burly had provided false FBI identification and a cover story for them to help calm their intended captives.

But no one knew where Isabel and Bob were. Only moments before the order had gone out to move them to safety, and before the men assigned to them could react, Bob and Isabel had rushed from the garage in their car, and disappeared into the night. “Did anyone follow them?”

“Not that we saw. But several minutes later, a sedan with two men drove up and parked in front of their house. One got out and knocked on their door. He seemed upset when there was no answer.”

“Was there anything strange about the car?”

“No. It was a rental. But our guys turned a listening device on the men. They were speaking Russian!”

Atcho’s pounding heart had slowed at the news, and for the space of a moment, he felt resigned to his fate. Then his spirit stirred. In a few terse words, he told Burly he would keep in touch, and replaced the cell phone. One overwhelming factor now stood out in his mind. Time was running out. Tomorrow morning, Govorov had said. At ten o’clock.

As he lay in darkness, Atcho went over what Govorov called their “final” conversation. “Kill the Soviet premier?” Atcho had repeated. “Are you crazy? Do you want to start World War Three?”

“I assure you that will not happen.”

Atcho hated the rasping, whispery voice. And again, the almost familiar pronunciation and word choices nagged at the back of his mind. “What’s wrong with you people?” he had yelled furiously. “Can’t you try a little live-and-let-live philosophy? What reason could you possibly have for wanting to kill your own premier?”

“I told you, Atcho. Not everyone in the Soviet Union believes this treaty is in our interest. Add that to Glasnost and Perestroika – the so-called ‘New Openness’ – well, the premier is fortunate to have lasted this long.”

Atcho sat a few moments in silence, shaking his head. “Why do it here?” he asked. “Why me?”

Govorov’s response was measured. “Those of us that oppose the premier feel it is better if he is killed in the U.S. That will immediately stop the treaty from being signed. As for you, you’re an excellent marksman, you fit the profile, and you’re available.”

Understanding dawned on Atcho. “I fit the profile,” he said calmly. “I’m the perfect patsy. Embittered Cuban patriot, resistance leader, and West Point graduate. And I’ve been honored by the president.” He paused for a moment. “And there will be no escape for me.”

“That’s right,” the general said quietly.

Atcho felt no emotion. “You couldn’t have foreseen this, Govorov,” he said. “Khrushchev was still in power when you ‘warehoused’ me. Brezhnev was still around when you allowed me to emigrate. You’ve saved me all these years for rare missions. Aren’t you afraid you might lose a valuable commodity?”

“No, Atcho. Frankly, you’ve been a disappointment. Your withdrawn behavior keeps you from the types of people I wanted you to meet. I’m afraid you learned too well how to be a plantada on the Isle of Pines. You contradict everything I say, and take no advantage of opportunities to develop contacts thrust under your nose. General Clary and his guests at the barbeque are a case in point. As a result, you’ve been unsuitable for every mission that has come along. But, you are uniquely suited for this one.”

He was silent a moment, and then added, “By the way, I forgot to congratulate you on your expected grandchild.” There was no warmth in his voice. “It’s good to know that you have added incentive to meet your goals.”

Atcho ignored the deliberate dig. “How do you expect me to get past the Secret Service? I think they’ll check the buildings well in advance.”

“Well, now you know why we changed out rifles on you. The first one is already in place. You are aware that I am thorough, Atcho. Security will be tight, but the premier’s party will be a passing motorcade. Precautions will not be as stringent. Besides, you own and manage a building on the street where his motorcade will pass. You have every right and reason to be there. You’ll find the rifle in the center windowsill there. The suite is vacant because one of our organizations rented it, and vacated it for this purpose. However, it is not traceable to us, and the reason given for vacating the building is credible.”

Atcho rubbed his forehead tiredly. “What if I refuse, or miss?”

“That would not be wise, my friend, if you value Isabel’s life and … well, no need to press the point. The premier will be assassinated whether or not you do it. You are not the only sleeper agent in the United States. Nor are you the only one assigned to this mission. Don’t be a hero, Atcho. You might not save your own life, but you can save other lives important to you.”

He paused, and when he continued, his voice took on an officious tone. “You are now a prisoner in your apartment. Early in the morning, you’ll be escorted to the place where you’ll give your final performance.” He chuckled, and Atcho’s senses honed in to the almost recognizable sound. Then came a sardonic touch of humor in the hoarse, whispered words. “Think of it as a strike against your oppressors.”

“You are my oppressor,” Atcho snapped bitterly. “Somehow, you connected Eduardo and Atcho, and rode that knowledge for all it was worth. As it turns out, it wasn’t worth much.”

“Atcho! You underestimate the contribution you are about to make.”

“You mean the start of the next world war!”

“It won’t come to that. The leaders of our faction do not seek war. We just don’t want democracy in our country. And we don’t want too much peace. I think you’d find your own defense industry agreeing with us on that.”

“Are you going to assist in my apprehension?”

“I imagine, with your resourcefulness, you’ll get a head start. But, we’ll have to keep up appearances.”

“Aren’t the windows of the premier’s limousine bullet-proof? How am I going to get a clear shot at him?”

“Take my word for it, you’ll get a shot. Be ready when the opportunity comes. Anything else? I really must go.”

“One more question. How did you connect Atcho and Eduardo?”

Govorov laughed. “I’m going to miss you, Atcho. But I can’t answer that. You’d learn too much, and I enjoy living. Good luck and goodbye.”

The phone had gone dead.

In darkness, Atcho frowned. During this long night, his conversation with Govorov had played over and over in his mind. You’re missing something, Atcho! Find it!

41

It was nearly eight o’clock, and sunshine streamed through Atcho’s windows when his two guards entered the bedroom. He made no protest. He showered, dressed, and accepted the cup of coffee they offered. Then he picked up his attaché case and prepared to follow his escorts. The cellular phone was concealed clumsily inside his jacket.

One man grasped the attaché case and asked, “What do you need this for?”

“I have work to do when you’re finished with me,” Atcho replied. The guard looked dubiously at him, opened the case, and rummaged through several real estate briefs. He grinned knowingly at his partner and handed the briefcase back to Atcho. “Yeah, I guess you’ll need to complete this work,” he agreed sarcastically.

Atcho crossed the room, set the attaché on a coffee table, and lifted the lid to mask his actions. He straightened files, then, when both escorts looked away, he placed the cellular phone inside. He also placed in the case a small bag he took from another pocket. It contained a small vial of oil and a pair of surgical gloves.

Minutes later, they were speeding through the capital city. Atcho recalled the trip he had taken through Moscow under similar circumstances. He saw the same expressions of amusement and aggravation on faces of American pedestrians that he had seen on Soviet faces seven years earlier.

As the car pursued its relentless course through the center of western democracy, he continued his observation of stately buildings and national shrines. They crossed a bridge leading across from Arlington, then wound their way past the Jefferson Memorial. Soon, they came to an expanse of lawn stretching away in both directions. On one side was the Washington Monument, and beyond, the Lincoln Memorial. In the opposite direction, and at a considerable distance, was the Capitol Building, its stately white dome gleaming in the sunlight.

Atcho chided himself for taking the graceful beauty of Washington for granted. He realized that he had never been to the top of the obelisk honoring the Father of the United States of America, and wondered if he would ever have the opportunity.

Soon, they turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Tranquil and inviting against thick grass and neatly trimmed winter plants, the White House stood surrounded by a black cast iron fence. Recalling his reaction when he first saw the Kremlin, Atcho decided that the White House represented a deadly combination of good intentions, poor planning, and naïveté. This was the other place where orders had been issued that had so devastated his homeland.

A few blocks further on, the car pulled in front of the offices Govorov had referred to. “We’ll be watching all exits closely,” one of the men said. “Don’t try to leave before you are finished.”