AIR FORCE ONE
The new Boeing executive-configured 747 was cruising at 41,000 feet, experiencing light turbulence, when Grant Wilkinson, carrying a Flash Message, rushed into the president’s private dining room.
“Mister President,” Wilkinson paused a second and continued, “Sir, the Russians attacked one of our ships. The Virginia is—”
“SON-OF-A-BITCH!” The president dropped his utensils in his plate, the early breakfast forgotten, as the color drained from his face.
“When?”
“Approximately twenty minutes ago. The Virginia is badly damaged but afloat.”
Wilkinson looked at the message in his hand, then subconsciously crushed the paper. “Sub got them and shot down an antisub plane from the Eisenhower.”
“What about the sub?” the president asked, clearly agitated. He quickly wiped his mouth, then threw the linen napkin on the table.
“The Virginia sunk it, sir. Another ASW plane confirmed the sinking.”
“How many casualties, Grant?” The president was intense.
“Too early to tell, sir. Fourteen aboard the Virginia estimated killed. They have aircrews in the water and rescue operations are continuing.”
“What are our total losses?” the president asked, standing up from his table.
“Two fighters, a tanker plane, and the antisub aircraft are confirmed at this time.”
“How the hell did we lose that many aircraft?”
“Sir, the Russians had fighters up, came out of nowhere. They shot down two of our Tomcats and the tanker aircraft before our pilots had a—”
“Did we get any of their fighters?”
“Yessir, three.” Wilkinson had never seen his friend this violently mad. “One limped to the coast, may have bailed out over land.”
“How the hell did they get fighters out there without being detected?”
“No one knows for sure, sir.” Wilkinson paused, choosing his words carefully. “Our airborne radar plane reported the Russians popped out from a commercial airline track, possibly being camouflaged by a transport plane. There was an Aeroflot aircraft in the area at the time of the attack.”
“What do you think, Grant?”
“Obviously deliberate.” Wilkinson sighed. “An insane move on the eve of your meeting with Zhilinkhov. Just beyond comprehension.”
“Agree.” The president paused, mulling over various responses to the attack. “I agree wholeheartedly, Grant.”
The president was regaining his composure. “How do you think I should approach Zhilinkhov and his staff?”
Wilkinson did not hesitate. “Sir, you’re going to have to take the gloves off with this guy.”
Wilkinson watched as the president, formulating a decision, lightly tapped his fingers on the edge of the table.
“You’re absolutely correct, as usual.” The president looked straight into the eyes of his chief of staff. “Order DEFCON-Two and notify Lajes that I demand to see Zhilinkhov immediately on arrival.”
“Yessir,” Wilkinson replied as he opened the cabin door.
The president, assimilating the unprovoked attack by the Soviets, attempted to analyze what Zhilinkhov was trying to accomplish with these blatant assaults on the Americans.
The commander-in-chief realized there were too many possibilities to contend with at this juncture. He nibbled absently on a piece of cold dry wheat toast.
The president knew the Soviets well. They would become serious and willing to talk only when threatened by systems that effectively neutralized their own forces. He thought about the new Stealth bombers and fighters.
These new weapons, along with early deployment of the basic Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI) satellites, had apparently unnerved the Soviet leaders.
The Russians had continued to exercise power by brute force, while their political system had become moribund and perfunctory. Soviet technology, while excellent in many areas, lagged far behind the United States. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, encompassing an area of 8,649,490 square miles and 266 million inhabitants, would not be a superpower without their arsenal of intercontinental ballistic missiles and space-related capabilities.
The Russians had every reason to be concerned, considering the technological advances in American military defense systems over the past four years. The Soviets were now facing the rapid deployment of these weapons.
The president had thoroughly studied the Soviet theories and aims that constituted their political, social, and economic aspirations. The Kremlin leadership simply did not subscribe to the thesis that a nuclear war cannot be won.
All Russian command and control systems had been increasingly hardened. They had constructed extensive relocation facilities and virtually impregnable underground bunkers for their political hierarchy.
The Soviets had continued to deploy widely dispersed mobile nuclear weapons, along with an ever growing submarine force, to augment the massive Russian army.
The enormous cost of such an undertaking sent a very clear message to the United States government. The Soviet leaders were prepared to engage in, and expected to survive, a nuclear conflict with the Americans and their allies.
A polite knock at the president’s cabin door interrupted his thoughts as Wilkinson reentered to brief his boss.
“Mister President, DEFCON-Two has been initiated and Lajes Command is relaying your demand, er, request to Zhilinkhov. We should be on the ground a couple of minutes before his arrival.”
“Excellent, Grant.” The president reached for the phone connecting him with the flight deck of the mammoth jet.
“We need to be there even earlier,” the president said to Wilkinson as he waited for the aircraft commander to respond.
“Colonel Boyd, sir.”
“Colonel, I’d like to arrive in Lajes ahead of our schedule. Think we can do that?”
“Yes, sir. No problem. We’ll put another man on the coal shovel.”
The president chuckled, thinking about the dry sense of humor Col. Donald Boyd, the commander of Air Force One, continually displayed.
“By the way, Colonel, you may inform the crew that we are now in DEFCON-Two status.”
“I know, Mister President. We have been informed that we’ll have a fighter escort from the carrier Eisenhower in approximately fifty minutes. They’re airborne and tanking at this time, sir.”
“Okay, Don. I want to beat the Soviet contingent to the ramp, if possible, by at least fifteen minutes.”
“Yessir, we’ve got ’er up to Mach-knocker now.”
“Very good,” replied the president as he replaced the handset and turned to his chief of staff.
“Grant, I’ve been thinking about the Soviet preparedness for nuclear conflict.”
“Yes, sir.” Wilkinson waited for the president to collect his thoughts.
“We all know their belief in surviving a nuclear confrontation, a full-blown war.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We also realize the differences between American and Soviet Union thinking. Both philosophies are deeply rooted and abiding.”
Silence.
The president continued. “There is no moral equivalence between our nations. The really salient aspect of the Soviet attitude toward nuclear confrontation is widespread preparation for the ensuing consequences. Correct?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Wilkinson responded as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.
“Then let me ask you something, Grant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If the Russians believe they can survive a nuclear holocaust with the United States, and they believe our new strategic defensive systems will negate their ballistic missiles, would it follow that Soviet leadership would use their first-strike capability to crush us before we render their weapons useless?”
“The logic does track, Mister President.” Wilkinson knew when to be quiet and analytical.
“Then why in hell, assuming the Russians plan to launch an all-out offensive, would they bring us to this state of readiness for a preemptive strike?”
Not waiting for an answer, the president continued, lighting a rum-soaked cigar. “It’s suicidal, Grant. One miscue, one commander gets the wrong word, and BOOM. It’s all over. The civilized world will be blown back to the age of the Australopithecus man. If the goddamn planet survives.”
Silence followed as the president puffed on his cigar and blew a smoke ring.
“I’m not so sure man can be labeled civilized, Mister President,” Wilkinson said in a low even tone.
“Point taken,” the president replied, blowing a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke toward the ceiling.
Wilkinson leaned forward. “Mister President, I wish to offer an opinion and suggestion.”
“I’m open to anything, Grant,” the president responded without a pause, inhaling deeply on his cigar.
“Sir, if Zhilinkhov is becoming senile, or unreliable, a likely assumption at his age, then we can’t know where we are.”
“True. Continue.”
“If Zhilinkhov’s thinking isn’t rational, then we might as well be dealing with a lowerclass primate. A very deadly one, I might add.”
The president leaned back in his chair, gazed at the blue and gold ceiling of the jumbo jet, and looked Wilkinson in the eyes before speaking. “What do you suggest, Grant?”
“Sir, DEFCON-Two is tantamount to a declaration of war, or as close as one can get to war before pushing the final button.”
“Agree. Go on.”
“I recommend that we contact our operative in the Kremlin, in the quarters of the general secretary, and see if he can obtain any relevant intelligence for us. He will most likely be sacrificed. We’ve had him in place for two and a half years, but we need substantive information now, Mister President.”
“I could not agree more.” The president paused. “How reliable is this agent, Grant?”
“Very reliable, by all indications, sir. He is highly regarded at Langley.”
“Very well. Make contact as quickly as possible, and give me an update on the DEFCON-Two status when you have an opportunity.”
“Will do, sir.”
Wilkinson gently shut the door as he hurried down the corridor to the message center of Air Force One.
NORTH AMERICAN AEROSPACE DEFENSE COMMAND (NORAD)
Gen. Richard “J. B.” Matuchek, United States Air Force, CINCNORAD, stared in disbelief as the status light on the situation board blinked on and off, accompanied by a loud buzzer, indicating a DEFCON-Two alert.
The general had just returned to his command post, deep in the 100-million-year-old Cheyenne Mountain, from a global situation briefing. This new development was totally unexpected, in view of the pending conference between the two superpowers in Lajes.
Matuchek was trying to grasp the consequences of this latest twist in the rapidly eroding American-Soviet relationship. Absently, the four-star general checked the authenticator code a third time. No question. This alert was real, not a computer glitch.
Matuchek opened the DEFCON-Two orders. The NORAD chief was startled when his command phone rang. He fumbled with the operational orders book and reached for the receiver.
“General Matuchek.”
“Dick, Milt Ridenour,” the Air Force chief of staff continued without waiting for an acknowledgement. “We are going to move our active East Coast fighter squadrons across the pond. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Matuchek answered, momentarily glancing at a new message placed on his console.
“The Stealth fighters are going to be based with our NATO friends. The movement is underway, along with the B-1 repositioning,” Ridenour concluded.
“Yes, I was just briefed on their status for immediate deployment.”
“Dick, we are going to replace the deployed squadrons in six hours, or less, with reserve and guard units.”
“Yes, sir,” Matuchek responded. “Most everyone has anticipated that possibility.”
“Good show, Dick.” Ridenour sounded upbeat. “What is your current readiness condition?”
Matuchek quickly checked the status board before replying. “Eighty-two point two percent at this time. We can expect, conservatively, eighty-four plus in four hours or less.”
“Appreciate that, Dick.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve got a hell of a mess in our lap and I know I can count on you and the rest of the NORAD crew.”
“Thanks, Milt. We haven’t been to DEFCON-Two in ages. Afraid we have a few cobwebs to dust off in the mountain.”
“You’re not the only one, Dick. SAC has had some minor problems, but we’ve got the 52s and B-ls deployed and on alert. We did lose one 52 out of Carswell. Crashed on takeoff.”
“Yes, sir,” Matuchek replied, saddened. “I was informed. Sorry to hear that.”
Ridenour continued without acknowledging. “The Stealth bombers—the ones we have available—are in the process of being deployed throughout North America. The last one left Whiteman ten minutes ago. We made sure the Russians are aware of that fact, along with the knowledge that some of our B-2s are carrying burrowing missiles. Their underground bunkers aren’t going to be of much use to them if they push the button. The Soviets know we have shuffled everything in the inventory.”
“Sounds good, Milt. The Stealth presence is going to confuse the Russian air defense, no question.”
Matuchek glanced up when an aide motioned excitedly to him, pointing out satellite confirmation of massive Soviet bomber groups joining over the Barents Sea.
“Sir,” Matuchek stared at the brightly lighted display, “we are receiving SAT-INTEL confirming large Russian bomber join-ups over the Barents Sea.”
“Better let you do your job and get on with mine,” Ridenour said in a pleasant, but clipped voice. “Be in touch soon.”
“Yessir.” The line went dead as Matuchek felt his stomach growl again.
The original DEFCON alert had taken away his appetite and the NORAD boss knew he needed to eat a few bites of something bland.
Matuchek ordered a chicken salad sandwich on white bread and a glass of iced tea. Waiting for his sandwich, the general thought about the NORAD complex. If the “Big One” ever happened, the underground operations control facility would be as safe as any place receiving a direct strike by a nuclear missile.
Experts believed a twenty-megaton warhead, a massive weapon, dropped on top of Cheyenne Mountain would most likely only pop the eardrums of those personnel inside the tunnels of the solid granite mountain.
The general felt reasonably comfortable with the survival aspects of the air defense, missile warning, and space surveillance control center. It would be very difficult, if not impossible, to destroy the command center.
It was a five-minute drive through the rock-walled entry tunnel to the underground city. Two enormous steel blast doors, weighing twenty-five tons each, provided the final protection from attack.
Matuchek politely acknowledged the delivery of his light meal, sipped his iced tea, and continued to think about the cavernous NORAD complex.
Fifteen freestanding buildings, housing the command post and industrial support equipment, were supported by 1,300 giant steel springs.
The huge shock absorbers, weighing half a ton each, would minimize the effects of tremors resulting from nuclear detonations on the surface of the mountain.
Matuchek, chewing the last bite of his sandwich, was interrupted by the assistant operations officer.
“Excuse me, General. We have received an update from the War Room.”
The lieutenant colonel placed the Top Secret, Eyes Only, folder to the left side of the general’s meal tray, next to his reading glasses.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Matuchek said, awkwardly swallowing the final morsel of chicken salad.
“Yes, sir.”
Matuchek reached for his glasses and opened the folder. He glanced down the page quickly, then started over more slowly to glean all the pertinent information in one reading.
CINCNORAD was surprised to see the Navy reacting so swiftly to the DEFCON-Two alert. The vast majority of carrier battle groups were already at sea. The USS Abraham Lincoln, commissioned in 1989, was underway with her battle group from Subic Bay Naval Station in the Philippines. The USS Independence was preparing to depart Alameda Naval Air Station near Oakland, California.
The USS Midway, based in Yokosuka, Japan, would be underway in two hours. The carrier USS George Washington, newly commissioned in 1991, was undergoing sea trials in the Atlantic and would supplant the USS Eisenhower and the USS John F. Kennedy.
Matuchek noted that most Air Force and Navy flying squadrons were in place, or would be in four to six hours. Large Army units were being deployed in predetermined areas utilizing heavy airlift capability provided by the Air Force, along with civilian contractors.
The Marines, both air and ground forces, supported by their own KC-130F heavy airlift squadrons, were in place and ready to react. Their normal inimitable efficiency, reflected the general, as he closed the folder.
“General,” the assistant operations officer politely interrupted. “The fighters are airborne. They should intercept the Russian bombers north of Frobisher Bay. Soviet fighters are now joining with the bomber groups. It doesn’t look very good.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” Matuchek said as he handed the folder back to the tall officer. “Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant colonel placed the briefing folder under his left arm and returned to his post.
Matuchek noticed the lighted status board indicated a readiness percentage of eighty-two point seven. Doing the best we can, he thought, as the satellite tracking update flashed on the wide screen.
The tension in the NORAD facility was like a tightly stretched rubberband. Every soul in the room recognized that today might be his or her last day alive. They all realized they might never see their families again, or, worse, they might survive to find the world outside the mountain no longer in existence.
February—MOSCOW
Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, the former Leonid Timofeyevich Vochik, was nervously pacing back and forth in his small, barren room, as he ground out one cigarette and lighted another. The last day of January had been agonizingly long for him and he fervently looked forward to the new day. He had to make contact with his American “connection” as quickly as possible.
He reached behind his footlocker and retrieved the clear canning jar of Stolichnaya vodka, one of the perquisites Dimitri enjoyed as head of the general secretary’s kitchen staff.
The large glass container had been full two hours ago when Dimitri was released from kitchen duty. It now contained less than two-thirds of the clear liquid as Dimitri raised it to his lips for another long pull.
He sat down in his only chair, wishing he could be with Svetlana in her warm bed.
He took another swig of the room-temperature vodka, lighted a fresh cigarette, and ached for the Russian woman he loved. She must never know who I really am, Dimitri thought as he planned a way to contact his Central Intelligence Agency control. There wasn’t time to wait for the scheduled ritual. There was so much pressure, and he longed to purge himself of the devastating knowledge gained in the hallway outside the general secretary’s quarters.
Dimitri reached across his end table and turned the windup alarm clock toward the light. The dim, forty-watt bulb in his table lamp made him squint. One o’clock in the morning. He calculated the effects of the vodka and reasoned that three to four hours of sleep would be sufficient.
Kremlin domestic help was not allowed to leave the compound when the evening shift ended at eleven o’clock. Working-class staff could leave the immediate area only when their rotation placed them on duty from five o’clock in the morning to two o’clock in the afternoon.
Movement in or out of the Kremlin, in regard to the working ranks, was not permitted between the hours of nine o’clock at night and five o’clock in the morning. Those individuals fortunate to be assigned to the early shift could leave at two o’clock. However, they had to be present for duty at five the following morning.
Dimitri, who had received special permission to leave the Kremlin grounds at seven o’clock in the morning, would have only six or seven hours to contact his CIA connection.
His assigned agent was aware that Dimitri would not be eligible to leave the Kremlin compound until his work schedule rotated the following week. Would the American even be in the vicinity?
His unusual behavior, Dimitri realized, would place him in a precarious situation, especially if the KGB noticed his change of pattern. He silently cursed the bad fortune of being on the evening work shift.
Swallowing another two ounces of the crystal clear liquid, Dimitri reconciled himself to the fact that he simply didn’t have a choice. He had an obligation to his country—America.
The knowledge he carried caused his mind to reel. Nuclear war. Biological and chemical warfare. He couldn’t comprehend the reality. The Soviet leaders had a detailed, step-by-step plan to destroy the United States. He had distinctly heard the party general secretary say he planned to strike the United States without warning.
Now he realized what Zhilinkhov had meant about Saudi Arabia. Russia would control the world’s oil supplies after the United States was toppled. No country, or combined countries, could stand up to the Soviet war machine. Nuclear war ….
The vision of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of nuclear missiles and bombs landing on his friends in America, his home, wouldn’t leave his consciousness, regardless of the amount of alcohol.
The vision seemed like a never-ending nightmare. Life had been so pleasurable before the tragic death of the previous general secretary. What had gone wrong? What had changed the world so drastically, so quickly, to one of imminent nuclear destruction? Was the new general secretary crazy?
Dimitri flinched as a searing pain shot up his right arm. The forgotten cigarette had burned the insides of his index and middle fingers.
Forgetting the pain, Dimitri lighted another cigarette, swilled a splash of vodka, and remembered, agonizingly, how he had come to be in this position.
An agent from the Central Intelligence Agency had fostered a relationship, a friendship, with the young son of Russian emigrants.
Dimitri, a recently certified Mitsubishi automobile mechanic in Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey, had specifically been requested to work on the blue Mitsubishi towed in for transmission repairs.
Dimitri glanced at the clock again, his vision becoming slightly blurred in the alcoholic stupor. One twenty-five.
His nerves were slowly relaxing with the aid of 100-proof vodka.
Thinking back on his adventure, Dimitri realized he had been very naive. Oh, what he would give to be Leonid Vochik again. A simple, happy mechanic residing in New Jersey.
His customer, and later, his friend “Phil” had ridden with him when the necessary transmission repairs had been completed on the Mitsubishi.
Phil had suggested they stop for a beer, noting it was past closing time at the dealership. Dimitri eagerly accepted the invitation since Phil offered to drop him at his apartment. The agent had known Dimitri didn’t own a car and rode the bus to work.
After a couple of beers, Phil said he had two tickets to the Yankees game the following evening, and asked if Dimitri would care to join him.
The young Russian emigrant, who had not cultivated many new friends, was ecstatic that his American friend would ask him to a big league baseball game.
Afterwards, over beers again, Phil told Dimitri he was a salesman (true, Dimitri reflected with irony) and traveled in the northeast sector of the United States.
Phil genuinely liked the young Russian. That bond had solidified their friendship and Phil suggested a fishing trip the next weekend to his father’s private lake and cabin. Again, Dimitri was full of gratitude and anticipation.
The weather, fishing, and friendly banter had been great that Sunday afternoon. Phil had inquired about Dimitri’s background, his immigrant parents, and what he felt in regard to the United States.
Dimitri had described the horrors his parents, classified as dissenters, had suffered at the hands of the Russian KGB officers. He had told, in detail, about the suffering his father had endured in Christopol prison and the relentless interrogations at KGB headquarters in the basement of the Lubyanka.
He had explained why he hated the Russian political system and widespread corruption. He confessed to Phil, after several beers, that he was embarrassed by his Russian heritage. Dimitri expressed love for America and thankfulness for the opportunities in his new land.
Phil had listened intently and suggested that Dimitri meet a friend of his who could offer him an unusual opportunity. Dimitri had been taken aback and remained very excited for three days prior to the meeting with Phil’s friend.
The friend, who was in charge of CIA clandestine “mole” operations, was straightforward with Dimitri. The former Marine lieutenant colonel introduced himself, explained his authority and position, revealed the true identity of Phil, and carefully outlined the opportunity he had for one Leonid Timofeyevich Vochik. The young emigrant would be known henceforth as Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, if he accepted the dangerous assignment.
The chief of CIA clandestine operations explained that Dimitri would go to work for the agency as an undercover operative in the heart of the Kremlin. He had been shown photos of the Russian worker he would change places with. Dimitri had been shocked by the apparent twin brother staring back.
The similarities had been incredible, a “clone” to the casual observer. The only differences had been blood type, twenty-three months in age, one-quarter inch in height, and the faint scar on Vochik’s lower right jaw.
The Central Intelligence Agency, Dimitri had been informed, had searched for seventeen months to find a Russian-speaking clone, one who could be trusted, for this crucial assignment. The agency was willing to pay quite handsomely for his services.
The CIA chief reiterated the importance of the operation, explained the Federal Bureau of Investigation background check conducted without Dimitri’s knowledge, the salary, benefits, and rewards at the completion of the mission. He also detailed the guarantee of anonymity and relocation to the western United States after his extraction from Moscow in five years.
The chief agent, along with Phil, who would remain a friend and be in charge of the operation, told Dimitri they needed an answer in twenty-four hours. Period.
They also indicated that Dimitri would need minor cosmetic surgery to eliminate the scar and to flatten his nose slightly.
In addition, Phil explained, three months of intensive and exhaustive training, six and a half days a week, would be required.
Leonid Vochik would become Dimitri Karpov through mimicry and emulation of tapes and recordings of Karpov obtained by highly sophisticated intelligence gathering equipment.
Dimitri looked at his alarm again. One fifty-six. He crushed the empty pack of cigarettes, reached into his top dresser drawer, felt toward the back, and retrieved another pack. Dimitri flicked open the Proshinsky cigarette lighter, staring at the inscription as the flaming tobacco sent smoke curling around him. He recalled the evening Svetlana had given him the lighter, precisely one month after they had become lovers.
Inhaling the acrid smoke, Dimitri thought back to his decision to join the CIA operation. The money, lifetime security (providing he lived through his commitment), and the desire to be respected in the United States. If only he could take Svetlana, the only woman he had ever loved, home with him to his country, America.
The reality of the danger involved, the high-risk factor had not focused for Dimitri until he was in the counterfeit Soviet tractor-trailer leaving Sweden for the Russian border via Finland.
The truck, in fact, had been stolen from the Russian state trucking line, Sovtrans. The Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye (GRU), Soviet military intelligence, had used the vehicle for spying on NATO training exercises and maneuvers off the island of Musko, Sweden’s most important naval base.
Dimitri had been extensively briefed about his insertion into Russia and the Kremlin headquarters. Taking advantage of the Transport International Routier (TIR) agreement that guarantees sealed trucks customs-free transit en route to final destinations in Eastern bloc countries, the CIA could safely blend Dimitri into Russia near Leningrad.
Dimitri had posed as a codriver learning a new route. The “driver,” a CIA operative, had been the leader of the mission and familiar with the route.
The Soviet tractor-trailer had a new serial number, side numbers, and license—all numbers that corresponded to a truck then in operation by the Russians. It would be in their computer.
From Leningrad, Dimitri and his driver had traveled to Vologda, four hundred kilometers northeast of Moscow, to await the train carrying the real Dimitri Karpov.
Dimitri Karpov, trusted Kremlin domestic, traveled by train twice a year to see his aging mother. His father died when he was a child and his mother had never remarried. She was in poor health and nearly blind.
Tatianna Karpov wasn’t expected to live long, and, if she did, she would most likely not recognize the difference in her clone son. The replacement son had practiced speaking precisely like the real Dimitri Karpov and had memorized his life history, along with the family tree.
The trips were predictable and always occurred in early fall and the later part of spring. Karpov traveled from Moscow to the village of Yemetsk, on the shore of the Northern Dvina River, via the city of Vologda. He always stayed in Yemetsk two to three days and returned to Moscow on the evening train.
Dimitri lighted another cigarette and looked at the clock again. Two seventeen. He inhaled the rich smoke and thought about how easily the switch had been made.
The agent/driver had waited for a call from an operative in Moscow when Karpov departed for Yemetsk, then boarded the train during the stop in Vologda.
After the CIA operative left on the train with the unsuspecting Karpov, the former Leonid Vochik had only to wait for a message detailing the train he had to board for Moscow. He never left his hotel room and ate sparingly from his knapsack.
He had not been told how the former Dimitri Karpov had been dispatched, but assumed the “driver” had killed him on board the train. The former head of the Kremlin kitchen staff was most probably at the bottom of Lake Kubeno, northwest of Vologda.
Dimitri recalled the heavy lead weights the CIA agent had concealed in his bulky clothes. The agent had placed the weights inside his large coat, in heavily sewn pockets, prior to leaving the hotel for the train station.
Dimitri could still envision the agent wrapping the body in rags, and, heavily weighted, tossing it off the long railroad bridge over murky Lake Kubeno. There wasn’t any guardrail to contend with. The darkness of late night, and the sound of the train, would conceal the deed. The body had disappeared to the bottom of the lake, where it had decomposed fairly rapidly.
The CIA operative had given Dimitri a package when he joined him in Vologda. After the train was safely en route to Moscow, Leonid Vochik, now Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, had completed the transformation by changing into the clothes of his deceased predecessor and reviewing his credentials. He had also noted a lack of blood stains or signs of violence. The clothes were only rumpled. Dimitri had noted, however, that the shoes were a size too large. The CIA had not thought of everything.
Dimitri had been terrified when he first approached the Kremlin. Remembering previous visits to Red Square and recognizing the local landmarks, Dimitri felt more confident.
He presented the authentic credentials of Karpov and entered the Kremlin compound. He was, after all, a clone of his predecessor.
Dimitri knew precisely where to go from months of studying the Kremlin floor plan. There had been some rough spots, but he had adjusted rapidly to his new environment. Dimitri initially felt that his colleagues sensed something different, but they couldn’t fathom the subtle change. Routine soon erased fleeting doubts about the head of Kremlin kitchen staff. Everyone assumed Dimitri’s slight personality change was the result of worry about the declining health of his mother.
Swallowing the last ounce of vodka, Dimitri ground out his cigarette, set his alarm for six o’clock, and fell asleep almost immediately. He was exhausted from the strain on his nerves. He could not comprehend what was happening to him, or, for that matter, what would happen in the next twenty-four hours. His world had gone mad, spinning out of control in a kaleidoscope of confusion and fear.