Shadows lengthened as he left the safe house. He no longer felt secure there. He moved with rush-hour pedestrians scurrying toward evening activities, watchful for anyone who seemed more than casually interested in him.

  Soon, he approached a commercial area near the marina, and entered a boutique. Moments later, wearing a casual, inconspicuous outfit, he emerged and hailed a taxi. He sat directly behind the driver where his face was hidden from view. The pistol and badge he had taken from the Secret Service agent were under his jacket.

  “Have you heard anything in the news about the Soviet official’s visit?”

  “Not much,” the driver responded. “Some guy scared him bad this morning. Right when he stops to shake hands with people, this car crossed an intersection a block away and the engine backfired. They got everybody thinking for a few minutes that it was an assassination attempt, because it sounded like gunfire, ya know. But things settled down pretty quick.”

  Whew. They covered that neatly. He settled into the seat and watched scenery glide by through gathering darkness.

  The taxi crossed the Potomac, turned east, and drove along Washington Parkway toward Alexandria. It wound through back streets until it entered a fashionable neighborhood.

  Atcho ordered the driver to pull over, paid him, and exited. He approached the door of a house and watched until the cab disappeared. Then he walked quickly back to the street and, clinging to shadows, made his way to an alley. Cautiously, he maneuvered through the few remaining blocks toward General Clary’s residence.

  He circled, noticing several dark cars parked at various locations around the block. Thankful that early darkness and frigid winter temperatures kept people in their houses, Atcho scurried across the remaining street, and ducked into Clary’s backyard.

  The house was dark except for a flickering glow in the downstairs den. Atcho crept to the sliding glass door and peered inside. Against the light of a television, he saw a man sitting in an overstuffed chair. Drawing the pistol from his belt, he pulled slightly on the door. It was unlocked. He jerked it open and lunged inside.

  “Don’t move,” he snarled and pointed the pistol at the figure in the chair.

  “Comrade Xiquez,” an unfamiliar voice said. “How fortunate.”

  Atcho continued to point the pistol at the man while backing against a wall. With his free hand, he felt for a light switch.

  “We wondered where you might show up,” the man continued. “This seemed one of the most likely places, so we kept this house under surveillance.”

  “Who are you?” Atcho found the switch and turned on the lights. “Where’s Clary?”

  The man ignored the question. “Call me Ivan,” he said, rising and extending his hand. He was nondescript, dressed in a plain, dark suit. “I am a comrade in the KGB.”

  Atcho stared. “I’m no comrade,” he said after a moment, ignoring the extended hand. “You stay where you are until I have some questions answered.”

  A picture of his own face appeared on the television screen. A reporter spoke. “In a curious twist to the story about the backfired engine that upset the Soviet leader today, this man is being sought by local authorities in connection with several real estate irregularities. His name is Eduardo Xiquez, and he goes by Atcho. You might remember that last January the president honored him during the State of the Union Address. Ironically, he owns the building that the premier was passing when the incident occurred. If you have information concerning his whereabouts, please contact authorities.”

  Atcho glared at Ivan.

  “You might as well listen,” the KGB officer said. “You won’t receive help from the Americans.”

  “Where is Clary?”

  Ivan shrugged. “I understand your hostility, and your caution. You have nothing to fear from me. As for General Clary, he’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “I wish we knew. Do you mind if I call you Atcho?”

  Atcho continued to stare at Ivan, pointing the pistol at his chest.

  Ivan sighed. “If we wanted to harm you, we could have done so from the moment you left the taxi. My men reported your progress since you entered the neighborhood. While you crouched at the back door, you were the target of a high-powered rifle no more than fifty feet away. If I wave my hand, you’ll be shot from three directions. Now, would you please put that weapon down? As strange as this might sound, our interests are identical.”

  Atcho looked about the room, then back at Ivan. Finally, he returned the pistol to his belt.

  Ivan looked relieved. “I’m authorized to offer you every asset at our disposal to help find the general. I am in command of this operation, but as the Americans would say, you’re running the show.”

  Atcho looked at Ivan, stunned. “Running the show? What show?”

  Ivan chuckled. “I thought you were familiar with our capabilities. We have men watching airports, bus stations, train depots, and every means imaginable of leaving the city. The general’s friends and acquaintances are under surveillance. We coordinated with American authorities to find Govorov.”

  “So Govorov is also missing?”

  Ivan looked at him strangely. “Let me ask you a question. You came here looking for Clary, so I assume you’ve learned of his activities. Have you mentioned them to anyone?”

  Atcho was suddenly cautious. “What am I supposed to have learned?”

  “Let’s not mince words. You came to kill Clary, so you must have guessed his role in all this.”

  Atcho held Ivan’s steady gaze. “So?”

  “I repeat. Have you mentioned to anyone what you’ve learned?”

  Atcho hesitated. “One person. Why?”

  Ivan stood and paced. “It doesn’t matter. The truth will soon be out.”

  “You mean that General Clary spied for you guys. Yep. The cat’s out of the bag.”

  Amused, Ivan looked at Atcho. “You haven’t figured out the rest of it, have you?”

  “You mean that Clary and Govorov are the same guy?”

  “How did you guess?”

  Atcho shrugged.

  43

  “This is my show?” Atcho asked.

  “Yes,” Ivan replied, startled at the transformed man before him. Atcho had come into the room with an air of desperation. Now, he was fully in command.

  “Why?”

  “Because you won’t let him escape. You have the most reason for wanting him.”

  “Let’s go. My friend Burly won’t be able to keep the dogs at bay forever. Assign a few men to keep watch here. And get me a cell phone.”

  Moments later, Atcho and Ivan were in the back of a sedan speeding toward the capital. Atcho picked up the telephone Ivan provided, and called Burly.

  “Where are you?” Burly asked. “I ran into difficulties.”

  “I figured,” Atcho interrupted. “I can’t tell you where I am. Are you still in touch with everyone?”

  “You’d better believe it. Mike’s here, and so is Rafael. They set up a command post in my house, thinking you’d call in.”

  “Tell Mike not to bother tracing this call. And tell him to call off the dogs if he wants my cooperation. I want to hear a retraction of that news story. Then I’ll contact you again.”

  “I’ll relay the message. Mike’s pretty sore, though. He made me reveal everything about the threat against your family.”

  “Thanks.” Atcho smiled wanly. Clary had apparently gone unmentioned. “How’s Isabel?”

  “She’s fine. Oh. I have something else to tell you.”

  Just then, Ivan nudged Atcho. “We think we’ve located the general,” he whispered.

  Atcho nodded and spoke back into the phone. “It’ll have to wait, Burly. I’ll call as soon as I hear that retraction.” He hung up and turned to Ivan. “Does your driver speak English?” Ivan nodded. “Tell him to scan commercial radio stations and let us know when he hears anything about me.” He waited for his instructions to be carried out, then asked, “Where is Govorov?”

  “At National Airport. He’s taxiing down the runway in a private jet right now. He used an alias to charter it. One of our men spotted him, but not soon enough. He’s taking off now.”

  Atcho sat forward, his brow furrowed in thought. “There’s only one place he can go,” he mused softly. He turned to Ivan. “We’re about ten minutes from National now. Tell your men to have another jet fueled, warmed up, and ready to fly by the time we arrive.”

  “But we don’t have a jet. And we can’t rent one. None of our men have the credentials.”

  “Take one,” Atcho ordered. “Your guys know how to do that. Tell them to do it quietly. We don’t want a SWAT team roaring in there. I’ll fly the plane.”

  While Ivan conferred over the phone, Atcho leaned back and looked up at the night sky. The moon had risen, full and brilliant. Atcho sucked in his breath. “You came for the final act,” he muttered, addressing the silvery globe. “How considerate.”

  The driver motioned. Atcho sat up to listen to the radio.

  “This just in regarding the story about Eduardo Xiquez, the real estate businessman. Authorities have egg on their faces. Xiquez was vacationing when his briefcase was stolen. When it was retrieved, documents found inside related to fraudulent real estate transactions. However, they belonged to the thieves, and Xiquez has been cleared.”

  Atcho grabbed the telephone. “Let me talk to Mike,” he told Burly.

  A moment later, the familiar Texas drawl of Atcho’s West Point roommate came over the line, tinged with an anxious note. “What in hell are you doing, Bud?”

  “Do you have channels all the way to the top?”

  There was a momentary silence. “Do you mean to the very top?”

  “We don’t have time to play, Mike. I mean to the president.”

  Mike paused again. “They’re open up and down the line.”

  “Good. Do exactly as I say.”

  “Well, now, that kinda depends—”

  “We don’t have time for that. There was an attempt against the Soviet leader today. We both know what would have happened if it had succeeded. I know where one of the principal conspirators is, and where he’s going. I need your help to bring him in. I already have the full cooperation of the Soviet effort. Now, will you do as I say?”

  Mike whistled into the phone. “Well, Bud, I admire the way you get around. Let me check.” Moments later, he came back on the line. “Okay, partner, you got it, short of nuclear war.”

  “Don’t take what I’m going to say personally, Mike, but I need more than your word. If this story hits the press, you can kiss the arms treaty goodbye. The Cold War will be set back at least ten years.” He let that sink in. “If something happens to me, a complete, written account will go to fifty newspapers in this country and overseas.” That statement was not true, but it was the best defensive scheme Atcho could come up with on short notice. “I’m the only one who can close this up quietly. Are you sure I have complete cooperation?” The knuckles on his hand gripping the phone had turned white.

  “Wait,” Mike said.

  Atcho looked around. They had arrived at National Airport and were driving along a road to a group of hangars set apart from the main terminal. Through a chain-link fence, a private jet was silhouetted against the night sky surrounded by dark sedans.

  Mike came back on the line. The “good ol’ boy” tone had disappeared. “It’s your ball game. What do you want?”

  The sedan rolled to a halt. “First, put the eastern seaboard on full military alert.”

  Mike whistled again. “You sure don’t ask for much. What else?”

  “Do it, Mike. I’m borrowing a private jet—but the owner doesn’t know it. We’ll be lifting off from National in two minutes. I want a straight-line flight plan from here to Havana. Tell the Soviets to arrange my entry into Cuban airspace. If need be, the general secretary can call Fidel. I should arrive in two to three hours.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Another jet took off ten minutes ahead of me. Send a couple of fighters to tail him but instruct the pilots to give no indication of their presence.”

  “Do you mind telling me why you want the alert?”

  “Because I think he’ll fly south, but he might do something else. And he’s smart enough to fly below radar. Maintain as much radio silence as possible. He’ll be monitoring the frequencies.”

  “Why don’t we shoot him out of the sky?”

  “I can see the headlines,” Atcho said sarcastically. “Navy shoots down civilian aircraft over international waters. Cover-up suspected.

  “Besides, the Soviets would appreciate your not dispensing with their General Govorov before they’ve had a chance to question him about others in the conspiracy.” He paused. “By the way, your guys would probably like to find out how much damage he’s done to our national security. He’s also known as General Paul Clary.”

  A long silence ensued, and then Mike spoke again. “Understood. Play it your way.”

  “I’m boarding the plane now. Get a direct, secure channel so we can talk while in flight.” He hung up and looked across at Ivan.

  The KGB officer regarded him with awe. “Do you realize that you gave orders to the heads of two superpowers? You’re running the military forces of one, and the intelligence apparatus of the other?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it in those terms.”

  44

  Two hours later, Atcho watched the lights of Miami float beneath him. Ivan sat in the copilot’s seat, alternately watching flickering instruments and staring into darkness beyond the windshield. Fatigue weighed on him. He fought to stay alert. “Mike, are you there?”

  “Yes. Everything is set. There’ll be a welcoming party of sorts when you land.”

  “What about the general?”

  “His flight path is just as you predicted. You’ll both land at Camp Columbia. Contact the tower before entering Cuban airspace. The general should land about twenty minutes after you do.”

  “Roger.” Atcho was glad to have taken the direct route. “If I need anything else, I’ll call. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch when this is over.”

  “Good luck.”

  Atcho acknowledged the sentiment and began a shallow descent. Twenty minutes later, he settled the sleek aircraft onto a runway at Camp Columbia and powered it to a halt. A pickup truck pulled in ahead of it and signaled for Atcho to follow. Soon, they maneuvered in front of an isolated hangar. Immediately, they were surrounded by armed troops.

  Followed by Ivan, Atcho opened the door and descended. An officer met him at the bottom of the stairs. “I am Eduardo Xiquez,” Atcho said, and introduced Ivan.

  The Cuban officer introduced himself. “My instructions are to render assistance. The other plane is on final approach.”

  Atcho turned and looked toward the other end of the runway. High in the sky and descending rapidly, a pair of landing lights indicated the path of the craft as it settled to the ground. Then, the rumble of engines became audible, and grew in volume as it touched down. It coasted to the same spot where Atcho had stopped, and then followed the pickup to a separate parking area.

  “How do you want to handle this?” the officer asked.

  “Surround him. Disarm him at the door. Bring him to me,” Atcho replied. He moved to the shadows.

  As he watched troops move into position, he experienced a curious sensation. For twenty-seven years, Govorov had stayed ahead of Atcho, knowing in advance what was going to happen to him. For the first time, Atcho was ahead of Govorov.

  Atcho imagined the relief the general must feel, believing himself in sanctuary. He would open the door and step out, expecting a friendly welcome. Instead, he would face the muzzles of many rifles. His biggest surprise would come when he was brought before Atcho.

  The jet coasted to a stop. Two soldiers moved to either side of the door, weapons raised and aimed toward its center. Moments later, Govorov emerged.

  The moon was high, casting shadows that sharply contrasted against the objects that created them. In the eerie light, Atcho saw only Govorov’s narrow forehead and strong jaw. His heart beat fiercely as he watched soldiers take the general’s arms and jostle him forward. His attention alternated between the man struggling indignantly against his captors, and images of the same figure standing over him just a few miles from this place, where Atcho had lain on the ground peering through tortured eyes.

  Abruptly, Govorov stood in front of him, staring in astonishment.

  Atcho stared back, disconcerted by the changed visage of General Paul Clary. Gone were the amiable eyes and stooped shoulders, as well as the air of paternal congeniality. Instead, Atcho regarded a fierce, proud face that seethed with defiance. Under the general’s loose clothing, a powerful physique strained against his captors.

  Govorov relaxed and laughed. The sound echoed through Atcho’s mind, recalling tones that had inhabited his nightmares for years.

  “I see that all my secrets are out,” the mocking voice of late-night phone calls crooned. Govorov peered into Atcho’s eyes. He shrugged. “I took a risk. I lost.”

  The general observed the Cuban soldiers surrounding him. “How did you do this?” He asked with genuine interest. “I knew you were good, but …” He looked around again, and grinned. “Wow!”

  Atcho glared at Govorov, fighting to contain the urge to end the general’s life, slowly and painfully. “Why?” he asked at last. “Why did you betray your country, your friends, and your family?”

  Govorov laughed. “Which country did I betray? I’ll tell you. Neither.” He spat out the last word. “My parents were Russian immigrants. Their mission was to produce me.” He laughed at Atcho’s disbelief. “My training began early—I spent summers in East Berlin and Moscow.” He paused. “My life was manipulated as much as yours.”

  “You made choices.”

  Govorov smirked. “I enjoyed the pay, prestige, and privileges of an officer in each of the two most powerful countries in the world. It was a great game.”

  “What about your family? What about Peggy and Chrissy?”

 

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