CURSE THE MOON (31 page)

Atcho held Ivan’s steady gaze. “So?” he asked.

“I repeat. Have you mentioned to anyone what you’ve learned?”

Atcho hesitated. “One person. Why?”

Ivan stood and paced the room. “I guess it doesn’t matter now,” he said. “The truth will soon be out.”

“You mean that General Clary spied for you guys. Yeah, I guess the cat’s out’a the bag.” Ivan looked at him with a slightly amused expression. “You haven’t guessed the rest of it, have you, Atcho?”

“Maybe I have,” Atcho said testily. “Clary and Govorov are the same guy, aren’t they?”

Ivan nodded. “How did you guess?”

Atcho shrugged.

44

“This is my show?” Atcho asked flatly.

“Yes, sir,” Ivan replied, startled at the transformed man before him. Atcho had come into the room with an air of desperation. Now, he was fully in command.

“Why?”

“Because you won’t let him escape. You have the most reason for wanting him.”

“Then let’s go. My friend Burly won’t be able to keep the dogs at bay forever. Assign a few men to keep watch here. And get me a cellular phone.”

Moments later, Atcho and Ivan were in the back of a sedan speeding toward the capital. Atcho picked up the telephone Ivan provided, and called Burly.

“Where are you?” Burly asked. “I ran into difficulties.”

“I figured,” Atcho interrupted. “I can’t tell you where I am. Are you still in touch with everyone?”

“You’d better believe it. Mike’s here, and so is Rafael. They set up a command post in my house, thinking you’d call in.”

“That’s fine. Tell Mike not to bother tracing this call. Also tell him to call off the dogs if he wants my cooperation. I want to hear a retraction of that news story. Then I’ll contact you again.”

“I’ll relay the message. Mike’s pretty sore, though. He made me reveal everything about the threat against your family.”

“Thanks.” Atcho smiled wanly. Clary had apparently gone unmentioned. “How’s Isabel?”

“She’s fine. Oh! I have something else to tell you.”

Just then, Ivan nudged Atcho. “We think we’ve located the general,” he whispered.

“It’ll have to wait, Burly. I’ll call as soon as I hear that news story.” He hung up and turned to Ivan. “Does your driver speak English?” Ivan nodded. “Good. Tell him to scan commercial radio stations and let us know when he hears anything about me.” He waited for his instructions to be carried out, then asked, “Where is Govorov?”

“At National Airport. He’s taxiing down the runway in a private jet right now. He used an alias to charter it. One of our men spotted him, but not soon enough. He’s taking off now.”

Atcho sat forward, his brow furrowed in thought. “There’s only one place he can go,” he mused softly. He turned to Ivan. “We’re about ten minutes from National now,” he said. “Tell your men to have another jet fueled, warmed up, and ready to fly by the time we arrive.”

“But, we don’t have a jet. And we can’t rent one. None of our men have the credentials.”

“Then take one!” Atcho ordered. “Your guys know how to do that! Tell them to do it quietly. We don’t want a SWAT team roaring in there. I’ll fly the plane!”

While Ivan conferred over the phone, Atcho leaned back and looked up at the night sky. The moon had risen, full and brilliant. Atcho sucked in his breath. “So,” he muttered, addressing the golden globe, “you came for the final act. How considerate.”

The driver motioned, ending Atcho’s reverie. He sat up to listen to the radio. “This just in regarding the story about Mr. Xiquez, the real estate businessman. Authorities here have egg on their faces. Mr. Xiquez was vacationing when his briefcase was stolen. When it was retrieved, documents found inside related to fraudulent real estate transactions. However, they belonged to the thieves, and Mr. Xiquez has been cleared.”

Atcho grabbed the telephone. “Let me talk to Mike,” he told Burly.

A moment later, the familiar Texas drawl of Atcho’s old roommate came over the line, tinged with an anxious note. “What’n hael’r you doin’, Bud?”

“Sorry things are this way. Do you have channels all the way to the top?”

There was a momentary silence. “D’ya mean to the very top?”

“We don’t have time to play, Mike. I mean to the president.”

Mike paused again. “They’re open up and down the line,” he replied.

“Good. Now, do exactly as I say.”

“Well, now Atcho that kinda depends … ”

“We don’t have time for that, Mike. There was an attempt against the premier today. We both know what would have happened if it had succeeded. I know where one of the principal conspirators is, and where he’s going. I need your cooperation to bring him in. I already have the full cooperation of the premier’s effort. Now, will you do as I say?”

Mike whistled into the phone. “Wael, Bud, I do admire the way you git aroun’. Let me check.” Moments later, he came back on the line. “Okay, pahdna. You got it, short’a nuclear war.”

“Good. Now don’t take what I’m going to say personally, Mike, but in this instance I need more than your word. After all that’s happened today, if this story hits the press, you could kiss the arms treaty goodbye. The Cold War would be set back at least ten years.” He paused to let that sink in. “If something happens to me, a complete, written account will be distributed to fifty newspapers in this country and overseas.” That was not true, but Mike couldn’t know that, and it was the best defensive scheme that Atcho could come up with on short notice. “I’m the only person who can close this up quietly. Are you sure I have complete cooperation?” The knuckles on his hand gripping the phone had turned white.

“Wait,” Mike said.

Atcho looked around. They had arrived at National Airport, and were driving along a road to a group of hangars set apart from the main terminal. Through chain link fencing, Atcho saw a private jet silhouetted against the night sky. It was surrounded by a group of dark sedans.

Mike came back on the line. The good ol’ boy tone had disappeared from his voice. “It’s your ballgame. What do you want?”

The sedan rolled to a halt. “First, put the entire eastern seaboard on full military alert.”

Mike whistled again. “Whew! You sure don’t ask for much, do you? What else?”

“Do it, Mike. I’m borrowing a private jet – but the owner doesn’t know it. We’ll be lifting off from National in two minutes. I want a straight-line flight plan from here to Havana. Tell the Soviets to arrange my entry into Cuban airspace. If need be, the premier can personally call Fidel. I should arrive in two to three hours.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Another jet took off ten minutes ahead of me. Send a couple of fighters to tail him, but instruct the pilots to give no indication of their presence.”

“Do you mind telling me why you want the alert?”

“Because I think he’ll fly south, but he might do something else. And he’s smart enough to fly below radar. Maintain as much radio silence as possible. He’ll be monitoring the frequencies.”

“Why don’t we shoot him out of the sky?”

“Good idea,” Atcho said sarcastically. “I can see the headlines. Navy shoots down civilian aircraft over international waters. Cover-up suspected. And the Soviets would appreciate your not dispensing with their General Govorov before they’ve had a chance to question him about others in the conspiracy.” He paused. “By the way, your guys would probably like to find out how much damage he’s done to our national security. He is also known as General Clary.”

A long silence ensued, and then Mike spoke again. “Understood, Atcho. Play it your way.”

“Good. I’m boarding the plane now. Have someone establish a direct, secure channel so we can talk while in flight.” He hung up and looked across at Ivan.

The KGB officer regarded him with awe. “Do you realize that you have given orders to the heads of two superpowers? You’re running the military forces of one, and the intelligence apparatus of the other?”

“I hadn’t thought about it in those terms.”

45

Two hours later, Atcho watched the lights of Miami float beneath him. Ivan sat in the co-pilot’s seat, alternately watching flickering instruments and staring into darkness beyond the windshield. Fatigue weighed on Atcho, but he fought to stay alert. No time to think about eating or sleeping. “Mike, are you there?”

“Yes, Atcho. Everything is set. There’ll be a welcoming party of sorts when you land.”

“What about the general?”

“His flight path is just as you predicted. You’ll both be directed to land at Camp Columbia. Contact the tower before entering Cuban air space. The general should land about twenty minutes after you do.”

“Okay.” Atcho was glad to have taken the direct route. “If I need anything else, I’ll call. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch when this is over.”

“Good luck!”

Atcho acknowledged the sentiment, and began a shallow descent. Twenty minutes later, he settled the sleek aircraft onto a runway at Camp Columbia, and powered it to a halt. A pickup truck pulled in and signaled for him to follow. Soon, they maneuvered in front of an isolated hangar. Immediately, they were surrounded by armed troops.

Followed by Ivan, Atcho opened the door and descended to the ground. An officer met him at the bottom of the steps. “I am Eduardo Xiquez,” Atcho said, and introduced Ivan.

The officer introduced himself. “My instructions are to render all assistance. The other plane is on final approach now.”

Atcho turned and looked toward the other end of the runway. High in the sky, but descending rapidly, a pair of landing lights indicated the path of the craft as it settled to the ground. Then, the descending rumble of engines became audible, and grew in volume as it touched down. It coasted to the same spot where Atcho had first stopped, then followed the same pickup truck to a separate parking area.

“How do you want to handle this?” the officer asked.

“Surround him, disarm him at the door, then bring him to me,” Atcho replied. He moved to the shadows.

As he watched troops move into position, he experienced a curious sensation. For twenty-seven years, Govorov had stayed ahead of him, knowing in advance what was going to happen to him. For the first time, Atcho was out ahead of the general.

Atcho imagined the anxious relief the general must feel, believing himself in sanctuary. He would open the door and step out, expecting a friendly welcome. Instead, he would be treated roughly as he would be seized, and his biggest surprise would come when he was brought before Atcho.

The jet coasted to a stop. Two soldiers moved to either side of the door, rifles raised and aimed toward its center. Moments later, Govorov emerged.

The moon was high, casting shadows that sharply contrasted against the objects that created them. In the eerie light, Atcho saw only Govorov’s narrow forehead and strong jaw. His heart beat fiercely as he watched soldiers take the general’s arms and jostle him forward. His attention alternated between the man struggling indignantly against his captors, and vivid memories of the same figure standing over him as he lay on the ground peering through tortured eyes just a few miles from this place. Then, Govorov stood in front of him, staring in astonishment.

Atcho stared back, disconcerted by the changed visage of General Clary. Gone were the amiable eyes and stooped shoulders, as well as the air of paternal congeniality. Instead, Atcho regarded a fierce, proud face that seethed with anger and defiance. Under the general’s loose clothing, a powerful physique strained against his captors.

Govorov relaxed and laughed. The sound echoed through Atcho’s mind, recalling mocking tones that had inhabited his nightmares all these years. “For two cents,” Atcho whispered, “I’d wring your life out with my bare hands.”

“Atcho,” the mocking voice of late-night phone calls crooned. “I’d be happy for you to try.” Govorov peered into Atcho’s eyes. “I see that all my secrets are out.” He shrugged. “I took a risk. I lost.”

His study of Atcho intensified. Then he looked around at the Cuban soldiers surrounding him “How did you do this?” he asked with genuine interest. “I knew you were good, but you’ve surprised even me.”

Atcho did not immediately respond. He glared at Govorov, and fought to contain overwhelming hatred that urged him to end the general’s life, slowly and painfully. “Why?” he asked at last. “Why did you betray your country, your friends, and your family?”

“Which country did I betray, Atcho?” Govorov appeared amused. “Have you figured that out yet? I’ll tell you. Neither!” He spat out the last word. “My parents were Russian immigrants to the U.S. Their mission was to produce me.” He laughed at Atcho’s disbelief. “My training began very early – I spent summers in East Berlin and Moscow.” He paused. “You see, my life was manipulated as much as yours.”

“You made choices,” Atcho said, his tone unforgiving.

“Perhaps, but I enjoyed the pay, prestige, and privileges of an officer of the two most powerful countries in the world. It was a game.” He laughed again.

“What about your family? What about Peggy and Chrissy?”

Govorov chuckled. “Atcho,” he said in a jocular tone. “What do they matter? They served their purpose. I’m sure they’ll get along.”

“You sociopath,” Atcho snapped. His mind transported him to a room somewhere in Havana where he had recovered from Captain Govorov’s beating. He saw again the slowly rotating ceiling fan, and the strong features of Juan.

Govorov ignored the epithet. “You turned things around nicely, Atcho. Now I’m a hunted man. If I escape, I’ll live in shadows, running from the two most powerful countries in the world. And I blew two military pensions to boot!” He grinned maniacally. “A new challenge, wouldn’t you say? Meanwhile, you’ll undoubtedly reap gratitude from the leaders of both superpowers.”

A screech of brakes caused both men to turn. A Jeep came to a stop on the runway, about fifty feet away. Its top was down, and a massive figure sat in the passenger’s seat. As Atcho watched, the platoon of soldiers surrounding them snapped to attention. Then the figure clambered from the Jeep and strode toward Atcho and Govorov. He was tall and barrel-chested. His face was bearded, and he wore a fatigue cap. A cigar protruded from his mouth.