CURSE THE MOON (27 page)

Over the years, he had noted wide expanses of open ground that allowed him to be observed from a distance. He also knew where congestion hid him from view. Now he used this knowledge to check for followers. He saw none, but kept up his guard. Starting at a fast pace, he headed toward an area where commuters waited for buses.

With as little disturbance as possible, he jogged through the crowds. He regarded them curiously, as if observing specimens. These were ordinary people, perhaps living humdrum lives – and knew nothing of international intrigue. Most of them were considerably less wealthy than he, yet he envied them for their predictability.

Above the sounds of morning rush hour, his mind flashed back to the soccer game pictured in his yearbook, and he imagined the spectators urging him downfield. “Atcho! Atcho!” they had cried, and he had responded with fierce determination. Sweat had flown from his face and arms as he ran over the grassy playing field, driving the ball toward the goal.

How differently his future had appeared then. He had been nearing graduation, preparing to go home to marry beautiful Isabel, for whom their daughter had been named. His whole ambition then had been to help his father oversee their beloved sugar plantation.

A blaring car-horn returned Atcho to the present, and reminded him of the reality of his past. He looked around. Certain that no one pursued, he entered a public rest room, removed his sweat suit and hid it under a sink, and then stretched a sweatband over his head and put on a pair of sunglasses. Then, clad in shorts and a T-shirt, he took to the streets and ran toward the Potomac River, where many people went for early morning exercise. He knew of several hotels and cafes along the bank where public phone booths could be used with small probability of being seen. He found one that appeared safe and ducked into it.

Knowing full well that he might be jeopardizing Isabel’s life along with Bob’s and his expected grandchild’s, he dropped a quarter into the slot and dialed Burly’s number. His heart pounded. The phone rang four times.

“Come on!” he muttered anxiously on the fifth ring.

He was about to hang up on the sixth when he heard a sleepy voice. “Hello?”

“Burly! It’s me, Atcho.”

“I know,” Burly chuckled sleepily. “No one else calls me Burly.”

“Listen,” Atcho interrupted urgently. “I don’t have much time. You told me once that if I ever needed help, to let you know. Remember?”

“Of course I remember. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t say. Please trust me, but don’t bring in the CIA. Do you understand? No CIA, or FBI or anybody else.”

“I hear you. Can you tell me anything?”

“No. There’s an informant, and I don’t know who it is. Isabel could lose her life.”

Burly whistled into the phone. “Is that still going on?”

“Don’t ask. Will you help?”

“Of course, Atcho. But I’m an old man now, and retired. What can I do?”

Atcho felt a surge of relief. “Do you remember Rafael from the reception?”

“I should say so! I trained him in Guatemala.”

“Good. Here’s his number.” He said it slowly, giving Burly a chance to write it down. “Tell him to assemble and arm a platoon of the best men he knows. They must be discreet. And no mercenaries! We need dedicated, trustworthy men to train in one of those survival camps in Florida. They should be ready as quickly as possible.

“Also, help him establish a credible false identity in a mid-western city. He should initiate a real estate transaction with me, using the alias. That way we’ll have legitimate reason to correspond. But he cannot try to deal with me in person. The risk is too great. Have a phone line patched directly to wherever he is, and monitor it around the clock. Get me a cellular phone that someone else pays for. Use Rafael’s new identity to rent an office to use as a safe house in one of the buildings along the river here in Washington. Leave the phone there. I’ll pick it up later. Tell Rafael I’ll reimburse him for all expenses. The same goes for you. I’ll be in touch.”

“Wait! Is this why you’ve been uptight all these years? Why didn’t you ask for help before?”

“I never knew who the informant is. I still don’t. But I know who he isn’t! I’ve got to get around whoever it is, so I need to set up an organization that hasn’t been infiltrated.” He paused, a question forcing its way to the front of his mind. “Burly, did you ever mention a picture that was brought to me in Havana?”

Burly was quiet a moment. “Yeah, I did. I first heard about it from Paul Clary. You shook him up pretty bad when you kept him overnight. Juan told me the story, too. He wondered why the picture wasn’t found by security police when they removed the bodies and Jeeps, and why it looked so new.”

“Did you ever mention it to Sofia Stahl, the secretary who helped refugees at the Swiss Embassy?”

“I might have. I told the story to some people the night of the reception. I think she was in the group.”

Relief swept over Atcho. “Thanks, Burly. I’d better go.”

For a few minutes after Burly hung up, Atcho held the receiver to his ear, pretending to talk while checking for anyone who looked suspicious. Seeing nothing extraordinary, he replaced the receiver, left the booth and merged with passing pedestrians. Soon, he was retracing his steps.

As he ran, Atcho enjoyed a familiar, long forgotten sensation. For the first time since that early period at West Point, he felt a measure of control over his own destiny. He relished the feeling surging through his muscular frame, and his confidence grew that, finally, he could strike back.

38

A month passed. Govorov called to say that the mission had been postponed. “Don’t despair,” he said mockingly. “Your day will come.” After that, as always, he called at regular intervals, late at night. Since the first phone call from Govorov years ago, Atcho had frantically searched his mind to place the pronunciation of certain words, and slurring of others.

Another month passed, during which Burly and Rafael completed Atcho’s instructions. Having received the key to an office situated near the river, he stopped in during one of his morning runs.

The suite was bare except for a plain desk and chair that had been abandoned by the previous tenants. Its largest office was triangular, with a long point overlooking a marina on the Potomac. On this beautiful, late-spring day, Atcho gazed across the river at pink cherry-blossoms still clinging to the trees that lined the opposite bank. Directly below, sleek vessels of every description bobbed in the water, carrying his mind to a fleeting time he had spent sailing toward the Chesapeake with Sofia. What is she doing now? When Govorov was a distant memory, would she even consider seeing him?

He dismissed the melancholy thought, and carefully checked his surroundings. The peculiar shape of the building allowed excellent observation of every approach. Behind it, and visible from a back window, was a parking lot. Atcho felt satisfaction, and gratitude for Burly’s thoroughness. In this office, he could store needed equipment, or hide for an indefinite time.

The cellular phone was there, inside the desk. Atcho placed calls to both Burly and Rafael. He was pleased to learn that the platoon was organized and ready to move on order. “You’re going to have to trust me,” he told Rafael. “My instructions must be carried out quickly, and without question.”

“Every man fought at the Bay of Pigs,” Rafael responded. “They remember what you did there, and at the prison. When you call, we’ll be ready.”

Atcho gave him Bob and Isabel’s address, and those of Bob’s parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, and anyone else in the immediate family, or important to Bob and Isabel. He instructed Rafael to assign two-man teams to each set of names. They were to learn the local geography so they could move rapidly to their respective sites. Since the locations were spread across the country, Atcho promised as much lead-time as possible.

Rafael suggested a two-step procedure. When he thought the time was near, Atcho would issue a warning order and the men would travel to cities where their wards resided. Then, at Atcho’s final order, they would transport family members to a safe location. “Take them whether or not they want to go,” Atcho told Rafael.

“What do we do if you’re isolated and can’t reach me?” Rafael asked.

Atcho thought a moment. “If you receive word that I have cancelled all my appointments, send the men to their waiting positions.”

There was little room for error. He had studied the plan over and over. Essentially, he intended to kidnap on a large scale and hold captives until he knew the identity of the informant. Then he would secure official assistance. For the first time, Atcho had a buffer between himself and Govorov’s threat to obliterate you, your family, and whatever extended family there is.

Timing would be crucial. The stakes were appalling. Should Atcho fail, not only was Isabel and her family at risk, but criminal charges would likely be brought against men he did not know, but who risked their lives for him. The lingering hope of a normal relationship with Isabel, and a life with Sofia, would be lost forever.

39

More months passed with only checkin calls from Govorov, and in the interim, Atcho pushed him out of mind as much as possible to concentrate on business. Then, during the first week of December, the general called.

“Atcho, you’ve sounded different the last few months.”

“I’m impatient. Are you finally going to tell me what I have to do?”

“You sound eager.”

“I’m leading a sedentary life, General. I could use adventure. Besides, I might find and kill you.”

Govorov chuckled. “I’ve always admired your spirit, Atcho. You never give up. Frankly, I’d welcome a face-to-face contest. You’d be a worthy opponent.” His tone became stern. “It’s time for you to train for your mission. Tomorrow morning, you’ll fly to Idaho.”

Atcho was stunned. “I can’t leave tomorrow. Have you forgotten that I run a business?”

“And have you forgotten that you run it at the convenience of the Soviet Union? You’ll go to Idaho, and be there a week.”

Atcho continued to protest, but Govorov was unmoving. “May I at least call my secretary to cancel my appointments? After all, I’d like to have the business to come back to, and you don’t want to call attention to unusual behavior. I’m known for being a courteous businessman.”

The general was silent a moment. “All right, but you’ll be watched carefully from now on. Do I need to remind … ”

“You’ve explained consequences quite clearly,” Atcho snapped, cutting him off. “You monitor my phone, and bug my office, apartment and car. What am I supposed to be able to do?”

The Russian laughed quietly. “Atcho, if there is something to be done, you’re the one I’d expect to do it. You should be flattered by my confidence.”

“What will I do in Idaho?”

“You’re impatient, Atcho. You’ll be provided a high-powered rifle with scope. You’ll practice hitting a moving target from a height thirty to forty feet above the ground.”

Atcho felt sick. “I’m supposed to kill someone?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Govorov said coldly. “Be sure you’re on the flight to Boise.” He gave specific details about the itinerary, while Atcho listened in dread-filled silence.

Early the next morning, Atcho called his secretary and gave her a list of tasks. He suspected that she might report to Govorov, so he was sure to make the list long, with many mundane items. Included were instructions to call Rafael and cancel appointments.

When he left his apartment, two men waited for him. “You ready to go huntin’?” one of them asked. Atcho stared at both men. Based on appearance and accents, he would have guessed they were from Kansas or some other Midwestern state. But he knew better. “I’m ready,” he replied ruefully.

The flight to Boise was uneventful, as was the ride to their destination, fifty miles north of the city. Darkness gathered as they drove up before a log cabin in a small, tree-lined valley with a lake situated in its cradle. Rolling hills covered with the brown grass of winter swept upward from the water, which was slightly glazed with ice, and on the far horizon, a crimson sun descended through purple haze over snow-capped mountain peaks. The ground was cold and hard, and pockets of driven snow laid about in various places from a recent snowstorm.

The cabin nestled in its valley, offering solitude and comfort. Apparently built to cater to hunters, its softly gleaming walls reflected light from a fireplace before a warm, bearskin rug. Atcho wished he could enjoy these peaceful surroundings.

The next morning, he and his guards began a schedule that was repeated every day for the following week. They rose early, ate a healthy breakfast, and then drove to a platform built in a flat area. The structure was thirty-five feet tall, and a window had been constructed on one side. A road ran in front of the platform, and a fence stood along one section on the opposite side.

Several hours each day, even as a cold wind whipped through his clothes, Atcho fired repeatedly at a bull’s-eye dragged on a sled behind a pickup truck covered with cast-iron plates. By the end of the first day, his shot groups around the center of the target could be covered by a quarter.

Then he practiced for speed. He brought the rifle to his shoulder, sighted through the scope and fixed cross hairs on the small black circle. Leading slightly, he squeezed off a round. By the end of the third day, he brought the rifle on line and fired in one fluid motion.

On the morning of the fourth day, Atcho was handed a new rifle. “You’ll see this one again at mission site,” one of his escorts told him. Though angry because he had already made the necessary adjustments for accuracy, he took the new weapon without complaint. Within a few hours, he fired it with equal effectiveness.

At the end of the week, they left for Washington. On the plane, Atcho was silent, staring sullenly out the window. Bright sunlight bounced off the jet, and far below, the Snake River cut its way through rugged mountain ranges toward the Gulf of Mexico. As the jet flew east, clouds rose to colossal heights, dark and angry.

They were in the air for a short time when he spotted a headline on a newspaper held by another passenger. Soviet Premier Gorbachev was in Washington, DC to sign the arms treaty recently approved by the U.S. Senate. Atcho wondered how General Clary felt about the treaty. Then his mind focused on Rafael’s progress. By now, every member of Bob’s family should be under observation. However, that would be true only if Rafael had received the message from Atcho’s secretary.