As predawn light brightened, they arrived at a large chain-link gate topped with concertina wire. The driver rolled down the window and showed documents to a guard, who waved them through. Fifty feet further on, they encountered a second gate. The space between them was bereft of vegetation and was very well illuminated. The guard at the second gate waved them through.

  The road turned into a gravel surface and rose at a slight incline. On either side, tall fir trees rose like sentries, reminding Atcho of his departure from the Isle of Pines.

  The road soon broke into a clearing and wended through a garden of sorts. Ahead of them, a house came into view—seemingly pleasant, and not at all what Atcho expected. “What is this place?”

  “A dacha,” came the response.

  “What is a dacha?”

  “A country house where people go for holiday,” the escort chuckled. “This one was built before the socialist revolution. I don’t think anyone comes here now for holiday.”

  The dacha was a large frame house, painted deep green, the roof metallic and steepled. When Atcho stepped out of the car, the chill of dawn caused him to suck in his breath, reminding him that he was very far north where cold weather extends well into spring, and nights become short very quickly. Above him, a strong wind swayed the firs.

  His escorts led him up some stairs, across a wide porch, through the main door, and into a foyer. The house was heated and reasonably well maintained.

  A thin middle-aged man with sparse hair came through a door to the left. He wore a uniform and projected a reserved manner, but not unfriendly. He held out his hand, but the move was perfunctory, almost an afterthought.

  “I am Major Karlov,” he said in heavily accented English. “I am the commandant of this camp. Please follow me.” He dismissed the escorts, led Atcho into his office, and indicated a wooden chair.

  Atcho sat and looked around while the major went to the other side of the desk. The room was utilitarian, but not uncomfortable—the furniture appearing to be quality holdovers from better days. The walls evoked a feeling of an era past. The desk was large and ornately carved oak.

  The major seemed comfortable enough in this environment, yet out of place. Atcho guessed that he descended from the proletariat, not the bourgeoisie.

  “I know virtually nothing about you,” Karlov said. “I understand you spent many years in deep cover, and you served the Motherland well.”

  Atcho gazed steadily, refraining from any reaction.

  “My job is to provide you with an opportunity to rest, and to prepare you for your next mission. However, …” He removed his glasses and his stare bored into Atcho. “Your preparation is only general, as provided to all agents. You’ll be trained in weapons, combat, espionage, and counterespionage methods. I know nothing of future missions, nor should you ask me about them. Is that understood?”

  Atcho nodded, hearing as if through a void. They’re training me to be a spy? What makes them think I’ll cooperate? He had no choice but to listen.

  “You’re a mid-level guest of the Soviet Union. As such, you’ll be afforded every courtesy and comfort. But you are expected to train hard.”

  He stood and leaned across the desk. “You must understand what I tell you now. I’m an officer of the Spetsnaz. That’s a special division of the Soviet army to disrupt enemy operations before a war begins. During peacetime, we train.” He took off his glasses again and cleaned them with a handkerchief.

  “We cooperate with KGB Section S, which trains and manages ‘illegals’—those operators who will be active in other countries. You’ll also train with Section V, which is responsible for wet operations.”

  Atcho winced. I’m training to be an assassin?

  Karlov pointed to a map of the facility on the wall behind him. “You are free to go anywhere on this compound. We have a library. It’s robust; we don’t restrict anything you read. In this location, the current material focuses on the United States.”

  Atcho shifted his feet. His shoulders ached with fatigue, but his mind registered the significance of what he had just heard. I’m to be a spy in the US.

  “You are free to use all of the facilities at your own leisure. However, and this is the key point,” his face became set, “our security measures are severe. This compound is surrounded by two rings of razor-sharp electrified fences. Motion-sensitive shotguns are stationed at their corners, aimed along the sides. German Shepherd dogs are kept deliberately hungry and roam between the fences at night.”

  Atcho returned the expressionless look.

  “There’s more. There are minefields on both sides of the outer fence. And finally, our guards are Spetsnaz. There are other precautions too. Questions?”

  Atcho thought he should respond. “Did you say that I am a guest?’

  The major smiled quietly. “Of sorts. Let me take you to your room.”

  Over the next weeks, Atcho trained for missions not yet known. When not in training, he read in the library, catching up on events that occurred while he was in prison.

  The library was housed in a large comfortable room, which also gave a sense of being from another time. Atcho was surprised to find various American classical books, as well as some by contemporary authors. More surprising were current periodicals, including copies of Time and Newsweek. He found uncensored copies of the New York Times and the Herald Tribune and sat down to read.

  One late afternoon at the library, Karlov entered. “I see you enjoy your reading.”

  “Keeping up. So much is happening.” Atcho had read old articles about the American lunar landing with intense interest. Rather than being inspired, he felt angry at the resources denied his countrymen while so much was poured into the space race. Not wanting to reveal his ignorance of world affairs, he did not mention that to the major.

  “I’m intrigued with the US response to the Soviet entry into Afghanistan,” he said instead. “Boycotting the Olympics?”

  The major chuckled. “We don’t know what to make of that either. It’s a weak response, and irritating. It’s more insult than injury. We would have enjoyed hosting the US in Moscow. President Carter seems to know a lot about the technicalities of submarines and peanut farming, but not much about governing.” He chuckled again. “There are still two months until the Olympics. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

  “Do you think the grain embargo will hurt your country?”

  Karlov gave his quiet smile again. “Carter seems not to know Russian history. Russians are nothing if not long-suffering. We do without things. Worse, we are stubborn. He is only punishing his own farmers, but if he wants to do that …” He shrugged, leaving his sentence unfinished, and then said, “Can you believe he gave away the Panama Canal?”

  Atcho was dumbfounded, but kept his expression neutral, only shaking his head as if in agreement—he had not yet run across that gem.

  He had spent much of the morning reading about the takeover of the US Embassy in Tehran a few months earlier. “What do you think about that?” he asked, indicating a headline showing that one hundred and sixty-one days had passed since the event occurred.

  “Unbelievable,” Karlov exclaimed. “Can you imagine the Soviet Union allowing any nation to occupy one of its embassies and hold its diplomats hostage?”

  Without comment, Atcho agreed that he could not.

  “I’m glad you are doing well in your training,” Karlov said, “and that you’re taking time to keep up with the news.” He left.

  Atcho returned to the article he had been studying when Karlov had entered. He had avoided discussing the subject. It pertained to more retaliation by Castro against the government of Peru for the events at their embassy in Havana.

  The dictator was also angry with the Cubans who had thronged the embassy seeking political asylum. He had announced that anyone wanting to leave Cuba was free to do so by whatever means, including boats from the US. The article showed aerial and close-up views of thousands of small boats docking at the small port of Mariel. They departed with thousands of his countrymen for Miami.

  Atcho read and re-read the article in silent dismay. I should have been on one of those boats.

  18

  Atcho felt like every moment he was not asleep was a moment spent in training. Even the movies made available at night were American slices of life. He realized they were used to familiarize agents-in-training with American lifestyles.

  One night, Karlov stepped into the small viewing room just off the library, where Atcho watched The Graduate with two other people. “Do you suppose life is really like that in the US?” he said. “Or is that CIA-developed propaganda?”

  Atcho answered cautiously, not knowing whether the question was a sincere inquiry or a test. “I don’t know. When I find out, I’ll drop you a postcard.”

  Karlov said nothing. He watched the movie for a few minutes and left.

  One morning in hand-to-hand combat training, Atcho found himself paired with a bull of a man with close-cropped hair, an instructor he had dubbed Boris. The instructor had taught him techniques for close fighting that he had not learned at West Point. There, Atcho had boxed, as all cadets had done. He had even won a regimental intramural championship.

  Here at this nonexistent outpost deep in Russia, the emphasis was on martial arts, street-fighting techniques, and using every advantage to take down an opponent. “Fair fighting will get you killed,” Boris told him.

  Atcho had been amazed at the perfect Midwestern American accent when Boris spoke in English. “If death is the only option, your job is to make the other guy lose.”

  “Go easy on me,” Atcho said as they squared off on this morning. Suddenly, the heel of Boris’ hand slammed upward against Atcho’s jaw. Boris spun low on the ball of his right foot, and his outstretched left foot kicked both legs out from under Atcho.

  Atcho rolled over quickly and came to a crouch.

  “You don’t have time to be funny in a fight,” Boris yelled. His eyes bulged. “You think your enemy is going to take time to appreciate your joke? Think. Watch the eyes. Distract.” He jabbed a finger at Atcho. “If you joke, you’d better do it only to distract the other guy and know exactly what your next move will be.”

  In surveillance and countersurveillance training, Atcho learned to follow undetected, and to spot and lose a tail. His trainers took him into a nearby town for a practical exercise. He felt refreshed to be among ordinary citizens going about their business freely. What I wouldn’t give right now for even a Soviet’s level of freedom.

  He went through classes on covert communications, including the use of blind drops, and was familiarized on all sorts of weaponry. The AK-47 was new to him, but most of the firearms were American, and many well-known to him. He had little trouble regaining competence and confidence in shooting.

  He spent many hours in the gym and running. Hardened by forced labor, and now with far better food and more rest than he had had in decades, the strenuous exercise brought Atcho to a superb level of physical fitness.

  He had expected ideological classes, but after several weeks, he concluded that there would be none—no attempt to indoctrinate him. Whether or not I’m a good Communist must be irrelevant.

  Isabel stayed constantly on his mind. She’s better off without me.

  One evening, while Atcho read in the library, Karlov entered. He took a seat in an overstuffed chair near Atcho. “You’ve done well here.”

  Atcho felt uneasiness forming in his stomach. Despite antipathy toward his captors, he had grown accustomed to the predictability and security of the training facility. He had enjoyed the camp’s creature comforts and the physical and intellectual opportunities, even as he felt pangs of guilt over the continued suffering or deaths of his comrades left behind at La Cabaña in Havana.

  The major’s choice of tense seemed to signal an impending change. “Is my training coming to an end?”

  “You’ve been here five months, Comrade. Tomorrow you leave for Moscow.” He stood. “I will not see you again.”

  19

  September 1980

  Why Moscow? The former guerrilla leader, political exile, and apparent new KGB operative slept poorly that night, tossing in apprehension of what might lie ahead.

  Nightmares that had been dormant returned in full detail. With them, his fear, pain and feelings of failure resurfaced. He saw clearly Isabel’s terror-stricken face in the moonlight. The scene morphed into a baby thrown into the air, and he felt revulsion on seeing its tiny body struck with bullets. He rode again in a battle tank riddled with bullets as it bumped through a dark swamp.

  He sat up in a cold sweat. Rubbing his temples, he got out of bed and paced, and then tried to sleep again. It came in fits and spurts.

  Two men sat in the foyer the next morning when Atcho finished breakfast. “This way,” one said roughly. They showed no courtesy as they led him to a sedan parked in the driveway.

  Atcho sat between them in the back of the car, while a third man drove. They wound their way back along the tree-lined gravel road, and after passing through the two sets of electric gates, turned onto a hard-surfaced motorway. Through the darkened windows, he saw wide, flat fields dotted with villages and isolated houses. Occasionally, large stands of trees interrupted the bare horizon.

  After two hours on the M4 highway leading into the capital, they crossed the great Moscow River. The road widened, and the sedan joined traffic heading into the throbbing heart of the Communist world.

  Atcho tried to glimpse landmarks he had seen in pictures, taking in the vast scale of Red Square, and the multicolored beauty of St. Basil’s Cathedral.

  One of the escorts rolled down a window as they passed Lenin’s tomb. Foreboding gripped Atcho as his eyes followed the guard’s pointing finger. The resting place of the Father of the Socialist Revolution was plainly visible in the wall of a long building. Nearby were the sculpted images of Marx, Lenin, and Stalin. Atcho stared coldly at them. Butchers. Stalin sent eighteen million Ukrainians to slaughter. How could he be a national hero?

  Pedestrians passed by their vehicle as it made its way along the river opposite the unmistakable red walls that seemed to stretch endlessly. On the other side, polished gold domes of Russian Orthodox churches gleamed in the sunlight. They challenged his previous perceptions of a cold, gray capital.

  At a bridge, the car turned and proceeded along the front wall. Atcho stared in stony silence. This, he knew, was the Kremlin.

  The colossal compound seemed to pulse with an unholy life of its own. He remembered pictures of terror-stricken people ground under Red Army tanks in Czechoslovakia. The orders, including those to dominate his beloved Cuba, had come from this very building. An almost irresistible urge to retaliate coursed through him. He set his jaw and prepared for whatever was to follow.

  They continued past the Kremlin and down another avenue. The number of buildings of classical architecture surprised Atcho. He had not been prepared for that, in spite of the elegant cathedrals. They belied notions of a perpetually austere Russian history. What happened in Russia’s past that we don’t know much about in the West?

  A few blocks further along, another imposing building appeared. This one was yellow and set off from other buildings by wide streets. At its front was a garden, in the center of which was an enormous statue.

  One of the escorts saw Atcho studying it. “Felix Dzerzhinsky,” he grunted, “the father of the KGB, the sword of the state.”

  The pit in Atcho’s stomach jolted at the mention of the KGB and its motto—the Sword and Shield of the Party—and its notorious founder, a murderer and torturer of millions.

  They turned along the side of the building. It continued far down the street. Before reaching the corner, they turned into an alley cut into the building that led to an underground tunnel.

  In spite of himself, Atcho grimaced. One of the escorts saw his expression. “Welcome to the Lubyanka,” he said with a sarcastic laugh. “KGB headquarters.”

  When they exited the vehicle, one man grasped Atcho’s arm, ushering him inside. They moved quickly down a short flight of stairs and followed a long hall. A bank of elevators stood halfway down the corridor, one waiting with its door open. The escorts steered Atcho inside. One of them pressed a button, and they descended into the bowels of the huge building, from which so many never again ascended. They maneuvered through more halls and took Atcho inside a room, leaving him there alone with the door closed.

  The room had no windows or furnishings except a table and a steel chair, facing a wall made entirely of smoked glass. The room was well lit, but a drape was drawn on the other side of the glass. He wondered what lurked there.

  He looked around for some indication of what to expect and found none. After a few minutes he sat in the chair facing the glass wall. A tray on the table contained fruit and a pitcher of water. Absently, he picked up an apple and began to nibble.

  Minutes turned into an hour, then two hours. He stood, walked around the room and tried the door, to no avail. Returning, he sat down and rested his head in his arms on the table.

  The purr of a small electric motor caught his ear. He looked up. The drapes opened. Atcho’s attention focused on the formidable presence in the dark room on the other side of the glass. Someone breathed out his code name.

  “Atcho.”

  The voice, low, sonorous, and unmistakably familiar, echoed through Atcho’s brain. Fury gripped him. He leaped to his feet, and advanced menacingly.

  “Captain Govorov,” he snarled, his features twisted with twenty years of hatred.

  “I’m glad you remember me after all this time. I’m General Govorov now.” He laughed, the same mirthless sound Atcho had heard all those years ago. “You look better than the last time we met.”

 

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