At his house in Washington, DC early the next morning, Atcho exited the taxi that brought him from the airport after his flight from New York. Burly had taken a separate taxi home. They agreed to meet the next day. Right now, Atcho wanted time to be alone and think.
As he mounted the stairs at his front door, a man he did not recognize approached, and spoke quietly to him. “Mr. Xiquez?” Atcho turned to him.
“Mr. Xiquez, my name is Tony Collins. May I speak with you?”
Atcho was irritated. “Can it wait? I’ve been traveling. If you’re selling something, no dice.”
The man smiled. “This is no sales call.” He pulled a business card from his pocket showing that he was a reporter for the Washington Herald. “I won’t keep you long.”
Atcho examined the card. He knew of Collins, a well-known investigative journalist; and searching his memory, he recalled having seen Collins on television a few times regarding some pressing issues, though none currently came to mind. He reminded Atcho of the TV character Columbo, down to his wrinkled overcoat, although with considerably less hair, and he wore horn-rimmed glasses.
After a moment, Atcho looked up. “Are you here about the burglary? Nothing was taken. The police are handling it. I know probably less than you do.”
“No.” Collins was puzzled and surprised. “I haven’t heard anything about a burglary. What can you tell me?”
“There’s not much to tell. I walked in on him, but he got away. Probably a kid.” Atcho dismissed the subject. “If it’s not the burglary, did I do something wrong? Your reports are not usually about real estate investors, unless there’s corruption.”
“No,” Collins reassured. “Nothing like that. I just have a few questions.”
Atcho regarded him through tired eyes. “Come in. I’ll make coffee. But this had better be important.” Collins chuckled, and followed Atcho into the kitchen.
After filling the coffeemaker, Atcho sat at the breakfast table across from the reporter. “So, what do you want to know?”
“I saw the president honor you at the State of the Union Address last year,” Collins began. “That was intriguing.”
Atcho waved away the comment and studied Collins as the newspaperman took a dog-eared notebook and a Bic pen from his overcoat pocket.
He fumbled through his notes. “Let me tell you what I know about spotty pieces of information that seem to tie together, but I’m not sure how. Maybe you could help?”
“I’ll try.”
“Thanks. Last year, during Gorbachev’s visit to the US, he was greeting the crowd along Pennsylvania Avenue when a car backfired.”
Atcho tensed, but otherwise showed no expression. He saw that Collins watched him closely. “I remember. It caused a stir.”
“As far as the public knew, that’s all there was to it,” Collins went on. “But on the same day, a man was found in a building down the street. He had been shot and killed. The bullet was fired from across the street.”
“I never heard about that,” Atcho lied. “That’s interesting.”
“I thought so too. But news of the body was kept from the public. I only learned of it recently through a confidential source. The guy is reliable, but couldn’t provide corroboration.”
Atcho was relieved, but only slightly. He sighed. “Get to the point. What does all this have to do with me?”
Collins held his steady gaze. “You own that building.”
Atcho’s eyes did not shift. “I own many buildings, including one on Pennsylvania Avenue. I’m in the real estate business. If a body was found as you say, who owns the building where the weapon was fired seems irrelevant.”
“I thought so too. And the media reported the backfire as coincidental to being in front of your building. Frankly, I think the story was planted. How else would the media have made those connections? Anyway, on that very day you were sought for questioning about irregular real estate transactions.”
“That’s right. The police admitted a mistake.” He shifted irritably. “You told me this interview isn’t about real estate. You’d better have another reason for coming to my house early in the morning, or you can leave.” His demeanor resembled that of a German shepherd giving warning.
Collins chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “You’re as direct as they say. Believe me, this is not about real estate.”
Atcho looked less than mollified.
“I remember that all-points bulletin about you,” Collins continued. “In fact, except for one other event, I wouldn’t have considered a possible link between the backfire and the search for you.” He looked at his notes again. “Around eleven o’clock that night, a Cuban MiG flew into Andrews Air Force Base under fighter escort. It was there only long enough to refuel, and then took off again. Then, a helicopter from Andrews flew to the White House.”
“That’s interesting,” Atcho rejoined, “but it falls in the realm of little green Martians. What does any of this have to do with me?”
Collins enunciated slowly. “My source tells me you were the sole passenger on the MiG and the helicopter.”
Atcho’s neck stiffened. He fought to remain deadpan. “Mr. Collins, you’re going to be disappointed. First you have me shooting someone in downtown Washington; then you have me flying in from a hostile country a few hours later.”
“I didn’t say you’d shot anyone,” Collins replied. “Did you?”
Atcho fought down an angry retort, and sat studying Collins in silence. At last he leaned forward in his chair and smiled. “I’m a businessman trying to make a living.” He stood and indicated the door. “I’m sorry you won’t have time for coffee.”
Collins stood with an air of being accustomed to seeing interviews terminated abruptly. “One more question, sir.” He handed Atcho a photograph. “I took this yesterday. It’s not very clear, but that’s you.”
He waited while Atcho studied the photo. It showed him outside the Long Island estate. “Why were you at the estate where the president and the general secretary met yesterday? I was there, with the press. I saw the exchange of glances between you, Reagan, and Gorbachev.”
Once again, Atcho struggled against a hostile impulse. He set his jaw, and pointed. “The door is that way.”
“Got it.” The reporter smiled ingratiatingly. “I’ll check with the police about that burglary for you.”
***
Atcho’s mind worked furiously as he reviewed events. Who else saw me on Long Island?
He reached a discomforting conclusion. Yermolov might already expect me.
He called Burly. They had been fast friends since working together deep in the swamps of Cuba, while preparing for the US invasion at the Bay of Pigs. Although Burly had retired four years ago, he had taken personal risks last year to help bring Yermolov down.
Burly answered the phone. “I thought we were going to talk again tomorrow.”
Atcho told him about his conversation with Collins. “I thought he was here about the burglary. I spilled that news. Turns out he thinks there was an assassination plot last year, and that I might have been involved in it.”
“Not good,” Burly groaned. “If he senses a story, he’s like a bulldog on an ankle. He’s a good guy, though. He’s spiked stories that could hurt national interests. Can you come over?”