CURSE THE MOON (32 page)

Atcho sucked in his breath. He was about to meet Fidel Castro.

Castro stopped and observed them coolly. “This is a night of ironies,” he said at last. “Two stolen jets enter my airspace illegally.” He looked at Govorov. “On one is an old friend who helped save my air force from American bombs during the invasion so many years ago.” He paused and turned to Atcho. “On the other is a traitorous countryman who has become an American citizen, and represents the Soviet KGB.” He faced Govorov once more. “You’re the only man I ever knew who is wanted personally by the heads of state of both superpowers. You didn’t tell me what you’d done when you called to request entry.”

Govorov grinned and bowed slightly.

Castro pulled heavily on his cigar, and then blew a cloud of smoke into the air. He turned to Atcho. “And you are the only man, to my knowledge, who has traveled under the personal protection of both the president of the United States, and the premier of the Soviet Union.”

“I told you!” Govorov said gleefully. “You see, Atcho, you should be grateful.” Suddenly, he lunged at a distracted guard. Govorov seized the soldier’s rifle, and aimed at Castro’s heart. “I’m not ready to be taken yet,” he hissed. “Tell the men to drop their weapons. Now!” He stepped behind the hapless guard, and held an arm around his neck.

Castro looked at him coldly, but nodded. Around them, soldiers lay their rifles on the ground.

“Tell them to move to the runway, but stay in sight.” The guards did as they were instructed. “Now, my friend Fidel, move slowly in front of me. We’re going to board my jet. Then, you’re going to order it refueled. I’ll need a fresh pilot, and clearance to fly to Colombia. I’m sure one of the drug cartels would provide protection for me.”

As Atcho watched in dismay, the trio set off across the tarmac. Castro led, followed by Govorov. Weighted down by the rifle, and holding onto the guard in front of him, he walked clumsily.

On the runway, the jet stood gleaming in the moonlight, a soft glow emanating from its open door. Govorov’s foot hit a pothole, and he stumbled. The guard shoved against him, and the rifle clattered to the ground, out of reach. Govorov whirled. For an instant, no one moved. Then, Govorov sprinted toward the jet. Castro lunged at him. Govorov stepped aside, and continued. He passed the jet and disappeared into the shadows on the other side.

Meanwhile, soldiers rushed to retrieve their weapons. The guard who had been hostage seized his rifle, pulled it to his shoulder, and fired in the direction where Govorov had run.

Atcho sprang into action. When Govorov began his race, Atcho was after him. He passed the guard just as the shot was fired, then barreled past Castro, and cleared the jet in time to see the fugitive disappear into the deep shadows next to a hangar.

He reached the same corner, and halted. Pressing against the front wall, he listened, but a low roar of distant aircraft prevented hearing anything else. He looked back at the soldiers. They were still gathering their weapons and organizing themselves.

Atcho edged around the corner. This side of the hangar was dark. He paused to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to blackness, and then surveyed the area.

The asphalt surface ended halfway to the rear. Hard, barren dirt continued to a high, chainlink fence running alongside the building. It wrapped around the rear, and was topped with barbed wire. Assuming it ran all the way around, Govorov was trapped.

Staying close to the wall, Atcho crept along the hangar. His eyes probed the darkness, searching for movement, while his ears strained for a discordant sound. Blocked by the hangar, the moon was not visible. However, Atcho saw that its glow created a long shadow that tapered away by the rear corner. Most of the back, and the entire opposite side of the building must be bathed in moonlight.

Govorov would stay in the shadows as long as possible. When found, he would be vicious, fighting desperately for his life. He might have already spotted Atcho.

He heard a scuffling noise. A dark form slid around the rear corner, coming in his direction. So, Atcho thought, he just found that there’s no place to run. Govorov came into view, a dark shadow against a wall. Atcho stepped into the open. “It’s no use, Govorov. Give it up!”

Govorov laughed. “So, Atcho, it’s just you and me at last. Why don’t you come and get me?” He stepped away from the wall, and backed toward the rear.

Atcho advanced carefully. “Come on, Govorov. It’s over. The soldiers will be here any moment.”

“That’s okay, Atcho. Maybe I’ll take another hostage. Maybe I’ll take you!” He lunged out of the darkness and across the short distance between them. Atcho spun away, and felt something sharp pierce his arm. He whirled again to face his enemy, crouching for the next assault. Behind him, he heard voices, and the noise of running boots on asphalt.

Govorov also heard the soldiers. He circled toward the rear of the building.

“It’s over, Govorov. Give me the knife.”

Govorov laughed. “What’s that expression they have in America? It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.” He moved into full moonlight, and looked around wildly. “I don’t see any fat ladies, Atcho. I just see you.” He lunged again.

Atcho dodged, and stepped into the moonlight. He felt extremely calm. “Come on, you miserable coward. You always hid in shadows. Let’s see what you can do in the light. You still have an advantage. You have the knife.”

Govorov hesitated just inside the shadow of the hangar. He turned to look at the approaching soldiers. Then he stepped into the moonlight. A crazed leer crossed his face. While their shadows waltzed in lurid symphony against the barren ground, the two enemies circled warily, sizing each other. The moon watched, uncaring.

Govorov lunged again, aiming the knife just below the rib cage. Atcho dodged away, and faced him. Govorov grinned savagely. He wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist, and lunged again. Atcho pivoted to his left, kicked with his right foot, and caught the general’s wrist. The knife flew across the ground.

Govorov gasped and swooped for the knife. He was too late. Atcho dove after it, and wrapped his fingers around its handle.

Govorov landed on him. The two men rolled in the dirt, their hearts pounding, sweat streaming from their bodies. Their lungs heaved. Govorov pushed Atcho onto his back, and sat over him, forcing Atcho’s hand down, with the knife.

The wicked blade gleamed in the moonlight, less than an inch above Atcho’s chest. He felt the sharp point prick his skin. Desperate, he clubbed Govorov’s head with his left fist, and rolled onto his right side. Seconds later, he was on top of Govorov, the knife still gripped firmly in his hand. He pushed with all his strength against the general’s upright arm, and felt him weaken. The weight of his entire upper body pressed down on the knife handle.

Govorov’s arm gave way. A scream wrenched the night, breaking even the distant rumble of aircraft.

Atcho’s mind flashed to the sound of his own scream, twenty-seven years ago. He relived the agony of his beaten body and watching his tiny daughter carried away. Then he felt the knife crunch through bone and sinew. A spurt of thick blood gushed into his face. Govorov writhed beneath him.

Atcho pushed the knife harder, and turned it against muscle tissue inside the upper left portion of Govorov’s chest. “Do you feel that, you son-of-a-bitch?” he yelled. He raised his arm to strike again. A hand closed around his wrist. He heard a voice.

“It’s over, Atcho. It’s over.” He struggled against the restraining arm, but felt strength slipping away. He turned his head weakly, and peered at Ivan.

“Let’s go,” the KGB officer said. “There’s no more you can do here.”

Atcho nodded. He breathed deeply and struggled to his feet. Beneath him, Govorov ceased to move. Atcho looked around.

The platoon of soldiers surrounded him, their rifles trained on Govorov’s limp figure. Castro stood at their center. He studied Atcho. “It’s a shame you can’t work for me,” he said.

Atcho glared at him, panting heavily. “Not a chance,” he gasped.

Castro peered at him closely, but was silent. He grunted, pulled heavily on his cigar, and blew smoke rings in the air. “Fortunately for you, the Soviet premier has requested – respectfully – that I expedite your return to Washington, tonight.”

He started toward the front of the hangar, and motioned for Atcho to join him. Atcho turned and looked at Govorov lying on the ground. “Is he dead?” he asked.

“I don’t know. We’ll let the doctors worry about that.” He started off again. “As I said earlier, this is a night of ironies. I, of all people, was asked to relay an invitation to the White House. One of my MiGs is ready to fly you to Washington. You’ll be met en route by U.S. fighters to escort you into Andrews Air Force Base.” He shook his head. “Unbelievable! Maybe this is what they call détente.” He chuckled at his own joke.

They arrived at the front of the building where two Jeeps stood waiting. “Goodbye, Atcho. This has been a most interesting night.” Fidel climbed into his Jeep and drove away.

Ivan stood at Atcho’s side. “Your night is not over yet,” he said. Atcho looked at his watch and gasped. Only five and a half hours had passed since he had left the safe house. It was now just past nine-thirty.

“I enjoyed working with you,” Ivan said, shaking his hand. “Maybe we can work together again.”

“Nothing personal,” Atcho replied dryly. “But, no thanks.”

EPILOGUE

46

Atcho awoke with a start, and glanced at his watch. It was now eleven o’clock. The MiG was settling onto the runway. He had slept through the entire flight. A Jeep met the fighter on a ramp, and led the way. Through blurred eyes, Atcho watched as they followed into a massive, well-lit hangar. When the aircraft halted, the canopy slid back, and Atcho climbed down. Two Marine guards, who seemed barely able to contain their curiosity, met him and guided him quickly through a door to a waiting helicopter.

Moments later, Atcho looked down at the soft, twinkling lights of Washington, DC. The rhythmic vibrations of the whirring blades relaxed his sore muscles. There had been no opportunity to clean up, so he still wore bloody, sweat-stained clothes, and he stank. Someone had given him a moist cloth to clean his face and hands, but blood still caked his hairline.

He leaned back. He did not know what to expect at the White House. But even if he were in trouble, nothing could compare to the misery of the past twenty-seven years. His ordeal was finally over.

He looked up at the moon. “Who’s really to blame?” he whispered to the brilliant, glowing orb floating in the night sky. He shrugged.

The helicopter floated to the lawn of the White House, and Marine guards hurried Atcho across the grass into a rear door. He looked around tiredly as he followed through a maze of halls and corridors. They climbed stairs, and passed offices to a wide foyer.

A courtly, southern gentleman met them, and introduced himself to Atcho as the president’s Chief of Staff. He motioned for Atcho to follow, and then proceeded along a portico and through a door. “Mr. President; Mr. Premier,” he announced. “Mr. Eduardo Xiquez.”

Atcho entered in a daze. He was in the Oval Office.

Tall and amiable, President Reagan crossed the room, his warm smile exuding confidence. The familiar figure of the Premier of the Soviet Union followed him.

“It’s so good to see you again,” the President said, extending his hand. “Sorry to bring you here so quickly after your ordeal, but the premier wanted to meet you. He is leaving tomorrow.”

Atcho was speechless. He looked at his grimy hands and filthy clothes, then back at the President. Mr. Reagan took his hand and shook it. A mischievous smile formed at the corners of his mouth. “I want to ask you,” he said. “Why weren’t you around to tell me to duck back in ’81?”

Premier Gorbachev also reached for Atcho’s hand and shook it. “I owe you a personal debt,” he said. “And so does my country. A simple thank you seems inadequate. Is there anything I can do?”

Atcho stared numbly, his gaze resting on the Premier’s birthmark. “Yes sir, there is,” he replied. The Premier looked at him expectantly. “You can accept my resignation from conscripted service with the KGB.”

The Premier reddened, and smiled uneasily at the President. “Anything else?”

Atcho shook his head tiredly. “No sir,” he replied, “but I’m pretty sure the President will want to ask you a few questions about General Clary.”

The two heads-of-state laughed uneasily, and President Reagan began to guide him to the door. “Wait,” Mr. Gorbachev said. “I have a question for Atcho.” He turned to face him. “Would you really have shot me?”

Atcho held his steady gaze, then replied, “I see you know the whole story.” He looked at President Reagan, and then back at the premier. “If the choice is ever between anyone and saving my daughter,” he replied quietly, “I’ll take that shot.”

A brief silence followed, then the President intervened with a twinkle in his eye. “People are waiting to see you downstairs, Atcho. The premier and I have to get back to a state ball.”

They shook hands again, and Atcho followed the Chief of Staff out of the office. Another Marine in full dress uniform led them down more stairs. Exhausted, Atcho barely took in the contrast between the soft-carpeted floor and stately decorated walls of the White House to the cold austerity of the Lubyanka. The Marine kept glancing at him curiously. Atcho smiled wanly.

“I don’t know what you’ve done, sir,” the Marine said, “but I know it must have been really something. I’m honored to meet you.” He took off his white glove and extended his hand. Atcho nodded tiredly and accepted the proffered handshake.

They rounded a corner and Atcho saw a group of men gathered at the end of a hall. One of them saw Atcho and nudged the others. They started toward him. Atcho stared in disbelief. Bob was there, and Burly, Rafael, and Mike. They surrounded him, clapped arms over his back, and led through another door.

“Hey Atcho,” Rafael called, “When I told you at the reception that we were destined to do something together, this is not what I had in mind!” He grinned, grasped Atcho’s shoulder, and steered him through another door and out onto a terrace. Above them, the full moon bathed the area in soft light. A small group of men had gathered there. They clapped as they saw Atcho, and surrounded him.