CURSE THE MOON (29 page)

Atcho nodded, and emerged from the car carrying his briefcase. He entered the building, and avoided the manager’s office, going instead to a closet on the second floor. Finding it unlocked, he closed the door, pulled out the telephone, and dialed Burly’s number.

“Is that you, Atcho?”

“Yes. Have you found Isabel?”

“No.”

Icy fingers constricted Atcho’s chest. “How are Rafael’s men?”

“They’re fine. The FBI identification and cover story worked well. Most of the subjects are safe, and have cooperated.”

Atcho glanced at his watch, and inhaled sharply. The Soviet motorcade was due to pass in sixty minutes. “Listen. You have one hour to find Isabel. Do you hear, Burly? One hour. Check the hospitals. Call Bob’s office. But find her!” His voice hissed with urgency.

“Atcho, don’t you think you’d better let us know what’s happening? Maybe we could suggest something?”

“Not until I know who the informant is,” Atcho said coldly.

“Do you suspect me?” Burly’s tone was incredulous.

“I know it’s not you. But you might inadvertently say something that could cause damage.” On impulse, he asked, “Is Mike Rogers still in the Secret Service?”

“I don’t know.”

Atcho’s mind raced. “Find out. We’ll need to contact him with only a moment’s notice. If you can’t reach him, get someone with authority who’ll respond quickly.”

“Anything else?”

“No.” Atcho glanced at his watch again. Another minute had passed. “Get going. And call me as soon as you hear anything.”

Shoving the phone into his briefcase he slammed the lid. Then he peered into the hall. Seeing no one, he crossed to the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he reached the fourth floor and then followed a corridor to the front. There he found the vacant suite.

He unlocked the door and entered. Inside, the suite was plain and bare. Moisture had gathered in corners around the ceiling and paint peeled from the walls. A heavy, musty odor permeated the room.

There were three offices. The only piece of furniture in the suite was an empty desk in the center office. On the opposite wall was the window Govorov had mentioned. It overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue. Atcho searched for bugs. If there were any, he needed to find them before using the cellular phone again.

Finding none, he studied the window. It opened inwardly and had two columns of glass on each panel. I can stand back when I shoot, he thought. Anyone looking up here won’t be able to see me.

Staying in the shadows, he looked up and down the street. The view was excellent in both directions. Trees directly in front and to his right had been trimmed, ensuring an unobstructed shot. Govorov prides himself on thoroughness!

Following the general’s instructions, he tugged on the sill. After some exertion, it moved, and he lifted the wood out of the way. Inside, carefully wrapped in waterproof material, was the rifle he had first used in Idaho. With it was a bipod.

He unwrapped them. Then he moved the desk to the center of the room a few feet from the window. From his jacket he took the packet and removed the surgical gloves and the vial of oil. After putting on the gloves, he poured oil onto a handkerchief and rubbed down every inch of the rifle. When satisfied that no fingerprints remained, he put the handkerchief and vial into the hollowed-out wall. When finished, he opened every window in the suite, and sat down to wait.

Twenty minutes had passed since he talked to Burly. He stared idly at the ceiling while his thoughts turned to Sofia. An eternity seemed to have passed since he last saw her. He shook his head in disgust with himself as he recalled their last evening together. How could I have been so stupid?

He thought again about the conversation that had triggered his outburst. She had raised questions about the picture found at the site of the firefight in Cuba. He searched his memory for details of that episode, trying to remember the vague concerns that had prompted him to keep Paul Clary captive overnight. And he recalled once more the terrible night he first met Govorov.

What you look like is what we want to know, the Russian had said. After that, Atcho was manipulated, but with no attempt to capture him until he had wandered into the operations center at the Bay of Pigs. How had Govorov established a positive identification? Had someone in his guerrilla organization betrayed him? That was possible, but at that time only his sister Raissa, her husband, and Juan knew that Eduardo had survived the fire. Given his brother-in-law’s resentment of Isabel, he was a possible suspect, but what reason would he have to contact the Russians?

The phone rang. “Still no word of Isabel,” Burly said. “I talked to Mike Rogers. He said he’d help, but wants to know what’s going on.”

“Tell him thanks, but I can’t say anything more than I have already. Keep trying to find Isabel.” He glanced at his watch. Only twenty minutes remained before the Soviet premier was due! “Burly, do you have more than one phone line into your house?”

“My home phone has a call waiting feature, and I have a cellular phone in the car. I can bring it inside.”

“Good! Do it! Call Rafael. Tell him to let you know at once when Isabel has been located. You must impress on him to call immediately! Then, contact Mike and instruct him to keep your line open. Tell him to establish channels with every active operation in the city. He must be able to react within seconds. When you have all that completed, call me on your cellular phone, and keep that line open to me. And, don’t take more than ten minutes. Do you have all that?”

Burly repeated the instructions and hung up.

Wrestling again with memories of Cuba, Atcho sat back to wait. Govorov’s words rang through his mind again. What you look like is what we want to know … We took your picture routinely with other prisoners, then we saw Manuel’s photo, and voila!”

Atcho sat up.

Govorov couldn’t recognize me in Havana because I was too beaten up. But soon after my capture, he knew that Manuel, Atcho and Eduardo were all the same person!

While he was recuperating in Havana, Paul Clary saw him, and something about the man had made Atcho uneasy. But they had not known each other. In order for Clary to be suspect, he would have had to know, before they met, what Atcho looked like, and about his nickname. He and Clary were approximately the same age. The general had graduated from Princeton, and, as a cadet Atcho had met students from there on several occasions. But only his father in Cuba, and classmates at West Point had used his nickname back then.

Atcho remembered what had bothered him about Lieutenant Clary. The young officer had accepted a great deal of risk to deliver a photo that was of no use in resolving a situation the United States Embassy would normally avoid. Also, his personality had transformed with little provocation.

Govorov’s words rang again. What you look like is what we want to know. The only thing Clary accomplished by his visit was seeing Atcho! “But Major Richards verified his story,” Atcho murmured. The phone rang again. Scarcely believing that another ten minutes had passed, Atcho picked up the receiver.

“Everything is set,” Burly said. “And we think we know where Isabel is.”

“That’s not good enough. I must know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she is safe.” He paused in deep thought.

“Do you remember Major Richards in Havana?”

“Yes. He’s retired in New Mexico.”

“Call him, and find out how he came by that picture of Isabel.”

“What’s up?”

“No time to say, Burly. Find him. Quick! And call me back in five minutes. Call immediately if you hear from Rafael.” Burly hung up.

Atcho went back to his ruminations about the nature of the informant. The person had to have known him years ago, and still be close to him. On several occasions, Govorov had been aware of information that Atcho was certain he had mentioned only to Bob. But his son-in-law had been a small child when Atcho and Govorov first encountered each other. That ruled him out.

I tried to keep you away from the battle area, the Russian had sneered. He had known the date of the invasion at least two weeks in advance! Neither 2506 Brigade nor the guerrillas had had such information!

Another thought entered his mind. When Atcho attended the West Point homecoming, Govorov knew almost immediately about his activities and conversations. Through Bob, Clary could have learned about those things without appearing suspicious, and relayed the information to Govorov.

Atcho remembered Govorov’s scolding for having attended the reception following the President’s address. Several weeks had passed between that event and Govorov’s call. General Clary was traveling to Geneva and Moscow at that precise time! He had not been around to keep Govorov apprised of Atcho’s activities!

Then there were the times, since last April that he had flown with Atcho. Always congenial and most courteous, Clary had also been quick to introduce him to every senior military person he knew, precisely the people Govorov wanted Atcho to meet! General Clary is a case in point, Govorov had said, referring to Atcho’s reluctance to develop high level contacts.

Atcho stood and paced the floor. He was certain Clary was the culprit. He crouched by the phone. He must tell Burly. Then he hesitated. How could Clary have connected Atcho and Eduardo?

He looked out the window. The usual crowd of passing pedestrians had grown. Many stood waiting expectantly. “They’re gathering to see the premier as he passes,” Atcho murmured. Dread spread through his body. He glanced at his watch. Only five minutes remained to the appointed time.

The phone rang. It was Burly. “All channels are open, and waiting for your instructions,” he said. He had no additional news other than that Major Richards was being contacted.

“All right,” Atcho said. “I have my phone set for hands-free operation. Now, I need quiet. Yell if you hear anything.” Burly assented.

Atcho pulled the desk over to the wall to the left of the window, where he would still be in shadows. Then he attached the bipod to the rifle, and set it on the desk. He kneeled on his left leg, and leaned against the wall and into the desk. Then, he rested the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, and brought his cheek along the wood grain stock. He peered through the scope. Far down the street, motorcycle police moved toward him, followed by a convoy of black limousines.

Atcho lowered the rifle, and in cold fascination, watched the procession. I wonder what the headlines will read tomorrow morning, he mused. Then, recalling the caption in the West Point yearbook under the picture of his soccer game with Princeton, he snickered. He imagined a newspaper with the banner “ATCHO SCORES!” in bold letters. Seizing control of his wandering mind, he looked outside again.

Down the street, the crowd grew as motorcycles purred by in slow procession, followed by the column of dark limousines. Moments later, the first policemen rode past his position. Movement in the building across the street caught Atcho’s attention. He glanced over.

Hidden in the shadows behind a window, was the figure of a man. The steel barrel of a rifle extended from his hands. Govorov’s words rang in Atcho’s mind. You are not the only sleeper agent in the United States, nor are you the only one assigned to this mission.

Atcho felt hope drain away. Even if Isabel were saved in time, the premier would die, Atcho would be suspect, and the world could be plunged into war. I wonder how many other snipers are on this mission. He stared at the motorcade. A puzzled look crossed his face. Then, his expression changed to shock. The procession slowed to a halt.

Atcho picked out the ZIL limousine with distinctive markings indicating the presence of the Soviet Premier. He watched in disbelief as the vehicle glided to the curb, and sharply dressed men scurried to open the back door.

Take my word for it, you’ll get a shot, Govorov had said. Apparently, members of the conspiracy had convinced the premier to personally meet ordinary Americans.

Atcho pressed firmly against the wall for support, and aimed at the open door of the car. Seconds passed. A man emerged, then another.

Atcho recognized the second man. He was of medium height and build, slightly rotund, with a congenial but stern expression. He was bald, and a red, elongated birthmark ran from above his right brow to the top of his scalp.

As Atcho watched in amazement, Mikhail Gorbachev, premier of the Soviet Union, threw his arms open, smiled broadly, and strode across the street to shake hands with eager citizens of the United States. Atcho’s heart beat furiously as he aimed the rifle. Gorbachev’s smiling face filled the scope. The crosshairs centered on the wide part of his birthmark and divided his head into quadrants centered on the red, elongated birthmark. All noise except Atcho’s heartbeat seemed to fade as he tightened his grip. He took a deep breath and held it. Nothing existed except the rifle, and the premier’s magnified face.

Almost imperceptibly, Atcho took in a deep breath and began to let it out. He placed his finger against the trigger and gradually increased pressure, resisting an urge to anticipate the explosion that would announce the completion of his mission. Another man moved in front of the lens.

Atcho cursed, and lowered the rifle. He wiped perspiration from his brow, and adjusted his position against the wall. Then he pulled the rifle into his shoulder, sighted through the scope, and watched for the premier to reappear.

While waiting, Atcho thought again about the probable newspaper headlines, and his mind flashed back to the soccer game pictured in the yearbook. He heard his fellow cadets shouting encouragement from the sidelines as he ran downfield toward the goal posts. “Atcho! Atcho! Atcho!” they chanted.

Suddenly, Atcho stiffened. Princeton! The thought hit him like a bolt of lightning. His mind zeroed onto the picture of the spectator who had seemed familiar when he had studied it at the library during his class reunion.

It was Paul Clary! He had attended that game. That was how he had known the name ‘Atcho’ and that it belonged to Eduardo Xiques.

The premier walked into view. Atcho took aim once more. His finger pulled steadily against the trigger. Visions of fire consuming his beloved parents and home swirled with images of an ominous, dark figure clutching tiny Isabelita on a cold, moonlit night. His brain flooded with memories of fearful crowds huddled together against deadly gunfire, while a bloody, bullet-ridden infant fell from the sky. “Gusanos! Gusanos! Gusanos!” The morbid chant sung by loyalists at the Peruvian Embassy on that terrible day mixed with Govorov’s mocking laughter.