KGB Major Ivan Chekov pulled his car into the gravel parking lot of Chewys Bar on a back road north of DC. It was his sanctuary for maintaining sanity. His Soviet bosses knew of his frequent visits; he had not tried to hide them. He met no one there, made no observations, and took no notes. He just went there for light conversation and relaxation. His perfect Midwestern accent earned him acceptance among the regulars with no more disruption than normal pleasantries exchanged between friends.
As a midlevel field operator, Ivan was under constant watch, as was normal for Soviet intelligence officers. Even in his apartment he could not feel alone with his thoughts.
At Chewys, he could think of home, and pretend he was free. That he could take such liberties was a testament to the high regard his superiors held for his political reliability, buttressed by the holy hell that would be visited on his family should he defect.
The cozy furnishings and atmosphere were exactly the quality that had kept Ivan coming back. He stopped at the bar to order a beer, and made his way to his regular table at the rear, greeting familiar faces as he went.
A smattering of people he had not seen before were spread about the room. He gave them quick scrutiny. Just don’t be paranoid, he chided himself as he took his seat and continued his observations. Satisfied that he could set aside concern for a time, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out The Sacketts, a novel by Louis L’Amour.
He enjoyed books about the “Old West.” He read them when assigned to the US as a means of picking up small talk and colloquialisms. From them, he learned of the rugged individualism that permeated American history. The idea that people could determine their own lives was contrary to his education.
He sat back and contemplated the notion, and sighed. If only I could bring Lara and Kirill here. But he knew that could never happen.
His mind went to last year and his involvement with the Atcho-Yermolov matter. That had been distasteful. Caught between two factions within his directorate, he had heard of a possible assassination operation, but had had no idea that it had been directed at General Secretary Gorbachev.
Only a year before, he had reached a level of clearance that allowed him to know that a Soviet mole resided deep within the US military establishment. He had been as shocked as anyone to learn that the mole had been General Yermolov in the guise of Lieutenant-General Paul Clary of the US Air Force.
As Clary, Yermolov had risen to become one of the foremost nuclear armaments experts in the US. His depth of knowledge had been counted upon during negotiations with the Soviet Union for Reagan’s Strategic Arms Reduction Talks.
By a twist of fate, Ivan had been paired with a Cuban he knew as Atcho to chase down the rogue general after the failed assassination attempt. It had culminated in Atcho’s stabbing the fugitive general in the chest during hand-to-hand combat on a sultry moonlit airstrip just outside of Havana. And here we go again. Ivan grimaced.
He took a sip of his beer, and found his place in The Sacketts. He tried to become engrossed in the story. Concentration became difficult.
He felt tension rise as thoughts intruded about the phone call he had received a week earlier, after midnight. As was his habit, Ivan had stayed up late reading news stories related to his intelligence cases to gain context. He had barely dozed off when the phone rang.
“Major Chekov. This is General Yermolov. Do you remember me?”
Shocked, Ivan sat up on the edge of the bed. His muscles tensed. “You were reported dead.”
The general laughed. “I assure you I am very much alive.” He used the long-practiced northeastern accent of Paul Clary. His disembodied voice mocked while it commanded. He gave Ivan very explicit instructions. “I need you to keep tabs on Atcho, and report to me all of his activity.” Lest there be any reluctance to comply, he left a parting taunt: “I’ll have my men look in on Lara and Kirill to make sure they are safe.” He gave Ivan a telephone number for keeping in contact. It looked like it might be from Paris or the surrounding area.
When he hung up, Ivan sat in a cold sweat. He dared not refuse to comply. Yermolov’s threat to his family was plain and deadly.
The next day, Ivan made quiet inquiries about Atcho. That evening, while Ivan placed listening devices in Atcho’s apartment, his heart pounded when Atcho came home earlier than expected. Fortunately, Atcho’s shot had just grazed his shoulder. The only information Ivan had gained in the interim was that Atcho had boarded a plane for Denver the morning after their encounter. He had returned to DC overnight, and then left for Austin without returning.
Now Ivan sat in Chewys, nursing his beer. Frustration rising, he tucked his book back in his coat pocket and prepared to leave.
Two other men were paying their tabs ahead of him. He waited, and then took care of his own. As he stepped through the door, a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and jerked him outside. He whirled and prepared to fight. Another set of arms encircled him and forced a cloth with a sweet-smelling substance over his nose.
Ivan blacked out. The two men who had been ahead of him looped his arms over their shoulders and dragged him into the night.
***
The old nuclear physicist peered at his handiwork under the lamplight in his workshop. It appeared to be a small rocket, barely eighteen inches long, but minus fins or any guidance system. He picked it up and placed it diagonally in a briefcase. It fit snugly among packing material and an external control panel.
Satisfied, he placed a carefully prepared cover of sheet metal over it, on which the shape of the rocket had been etched for easy orientation. He connected some wires, secured the control panel and a digital timer, and pressed a test button.
Five minutes later, he placed a call. “It’s functional,” he said when the phone was answered. “Tell me when to deliver it.”