Shadows of Vengeance, page 24
“It’s not forever.” She bent forward and kissed him softly. “You are so special to me because no one else would ever understand. No one else would be willing to remain silent so that we could meet like this. It will be over soon. I promise.” Oh, how she prayed that it would be over soon. But it was the same thing every year …
She opened her eyes and glared at Daken. She was a puppet. Daken pulled the strings. His friends, if he had any, controlled Morrison in the same manner back in America. When the masters thought it appropriate, they allowed the two of them a little dalliance just to keep them honest.
But Daken was right. There wasn’t a chance in hell she could hit Stalbo now. “Why don’t you people do it? Why don’t you kill him? Why are you saving him for me?” Her eyes were bright again.
“I explained that before. When it’s done, it’s—”
There was no reason to have asked that question. The answer was always the same. “When it’s done,” she repeated silently to herself, “It’s got to be done by a dissident. That’s murder. If we did it, it would be an assassination, and there’s no telling what that might lead to.” How many times had she gone to sleep saying that to herself, reassurance that eventually she and Morrison could pay their dues and be back together again.
“—and there’s no telling what that might lead to,” Daken finished. “I know what you’re going through. Believe me, I’ll have you set up again before you know it …”
“I quit!”
“All right. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get out of this country and head for Mallorca,” she claimed with finality.
“How are you going to get out of the country? They’ll have every place covered. That picture of yours is probably already in the hands of every border guard.”
There it was. It wasn’t a threat, it was a fact. She had nowhere to go. Everything that belonged to her was already in the hands of the KGB. She couldn’t be seen on the streets. She couldn’t go to a bus terminal, an airport … nowhere. Her only choice—Daken—was sitting behind the wheel of the car, not smug, not boasting, but totally confident. There was no choice. “I’m the woman without a country.”
“For now …”
“Forever, if that’s the way you want it,” she snapped. “That’s the way you must have seen it when I was in that hospital.” And then she had to ask the question that she’d always been afraid to ask even though she was sure of the answer. “But how did you get control of Jack?”
“I didn’t.” Daken turned to look at her, and for once it appeared he was trying to be honest. “He gave it all up for you. The second he made the decision to get you away from Stalbo, he violated the trust. It was his decision. He decided you were more important than the security of the organization. If he’d been caught, the entire network could have been compromised. It would have taken years to rebuild. So he’s paying his dues the hard way. As it was, we lost one inside man that we couldn’t replace for almost eighteen months. As long as Stalbo remains in power, we have …” There was no reason to finish what he had been about to say, or she might understand the value of keeping Stalbo alive. He sighed and smiled for the second time, though it again was just a twitch at the corners of his mouth. “That’s the why of everything, then and now.”
They sat in the car for a while longer, neither one willing to say the next word. Occasionally, Daken glanced in the rearview mirror. Occasionally, Larisa looked in his direction as if she was about to speak.
“All right,” she conceded after another twenty minutes, “let’s see how we get out of Prague.”
ROSTOCK, 1975
LARISA’S STORY
It was over a year later—around Christmas, Larisa remembered—when the first symptoms appeared. They were relatively minor, and she dismissed them as a sign that approaching middle age no longer respected the neutrality of rich food and drink.
Daken had determined that her background in the German language would be well-suited to research in the expanding East German Volksmarine. Her new home was the city of Rostock, a naval port facing north toward Denmark. Larisa had made a friend who invited her home to the country for the holidays. It was cold and wintry there and many families in the region still recognized an opportunity to celebrate. For five days she ate and drank more than she had in years among people who told Christmas stories similar to her mother’s.
Back in her tiny apartment in Rostock, New Year’s Day arrived with what she assumed were simple menstrual cramps, and she remained in bed during the first work day of the year. There were no additional problems until well into the following month. This time there were no holiday excuses and the pain was more severe and lasted longer. Her supervisors sent her to a doctor who decided to treat her for female problems.
By summer, when she was missing more days of work and had postponed her trip to Mallorca, she insisted on consulting a new doctor. Larisa found the elderly gentleman to be someone she could trust, and after two visits she was willing to explain what little she knew of her experiences in the KGB hospital in Moscow.
“I will be frank with you,” the old man said after days of studying the cells taken from her body. “You are suffering from a rare form of cancer. I know little about the long-range effects of the injuries you suffered. There are very few who do, so you would have to go to one of the research hospitals in a big city. There they would probably keep you to experiment on because your particular form of cancer evolved from unique causes. Whether you remain in Rostock, or become a monkey for them, it has spread a great deal. It feeds on old injuries like yours.” He bit his lip as he searched for words.
She smiled gently when she saw the difficulty he was having in coming to his conclusion. “I think you understand enough of what I have lived through to know that you can’t frighten me. Are you trying to tell me that I will die from this?”
His eyes closed for a moment, and they were bright when he slowly opened them. “It gets harder for me each year to say those words to someone who is still young. I don’t want to finalize anything until one of my younger colleagues has an opportunity to confirm what I suspect. I promise it will be the only time you will feel like one of those monkeys as long as you are my patient.”
A week later, the old doctor examined her options. “You don’t want to become a monkey?” he began with a half smile on his face.
Larisa shook her head. “I can think of better ways to die.”
“There are many traditional treatments we can offer, just like choosing in a candy store. However, your case is so different that I don’t think the standard radiation or chemical methods will do much other than make you unhappy. What I think may be best for you is …” He went on to explain some experimental treatment that his colleague was capable of administering. “You will not be a monkey. We will make sure of that.”
By fall, they admitted that Larisa was not responding. Not only had Victor Stalbo taken away her ability to give life, he had now claimed her ability to sustain her own.
To her surprise, when the fact hit home that her life was near its end, there was also a feeling of peacefulness that invaded her subconscious. All the hatred and pain held deep within for so many years seemed to dissolve in an instant. Shortly after, she made it clear in no uncertain terms to her contact that she wanted to see Daken.
“Of course,” Daken began in his peremptory manner, “my feelings go out to you.” He placed his hand over his mouth and coughed nervously. “I suppose this means that you want to go off on your own now.” He would gladly have acceded to whatever she desired. His latest mole in Stalbo’s hierarchy had been compromised a week before. Much of the network had suffered as a result. His mind worked rapidly. Maybe this was the time! If there was a way to damage the KGB as much as they had wounded his system, the least he could do for this dying woman was to arrange an opportunity for her. “I know you won’t be satisfied until Stalbo is dead …”
“No.” Her answer was as fast and sharp as a rifle shot. “I have no intention of dying on a street in Moscow in an attempt to kill someone like him.” Her eyes narrowed, and the strange light that seemed to emerge from them would have frightened most other men. “Wouldn’t you agree that I deserve to spend my last days in peace?”
Daken had often wondered, considering his vocation, how he might spend his last days. Now the answer had been presented to him. Never before had he been able to understand what he considered a unique bond that had attracted him to this woman. She commanded a respect that he held for very few people, and now he understood why they were so similar. He too suddenly agreed that if the opportunity was ever presented, he would choose his last days on earth somewhere where peace prevailed … and he would want to be alone.
“I will do everything in my power to respect your wishes.” This time Daken’s smile was broad. Even his eyes sparkled. In that particular moment of time, Daken pictured himself as a beneficent spirit capable of granting the wishes of those less fortunate than he. And he would do it.
That was how Larisa Alushta came under the care of Sister Teresa on the island of Mallorca. She never went back to the little hotel on the hillside surrounded by flowers, never attempted to locate the tiny beach called Paradisio, and never allowed Gaetan Allaria to know that she had returned to Santa Ponsa—to die.
1977
MOSCOW
STALBO’S STORY
Victor Stalbo was able to weigh the contents of the letter more rationally once his initial shock had subsided. He lifted the crumpled envelope from the wastebasket. It was postmarked five days before in Rostock. Did it take almost a week for mail to travel that distance? If the letter had arrived sooner, he might have been able to run her down there. But now, after five days, there wasn’t a chance. They’d have to go through the entire, painstaking process of tracking her down.
He placed the single handwritten page on his desk and smoothed it flat with his hand. There was no salutation.
Victor Stalbo,
For thirty-four years, you have been living a lie. You know and I know that you have never been able to totally escape your past. Each day of your life, you were afraid that I would return from the dead to haunt you. Since my escape from that hospital, each of your days has been filled with fear of me, fear of when I would reappear to tell the Russian people of the turncoat Victor Stalbo, of the murderer Victor Stalbo, of the lowest life-form in the world, the traitor Victor Stalbo.
I now acknowledge that I am incapable of finishing what I had intended to do from the day I learned who you really were—kill you! I have chosen a second method. It may not be as satisfying to me as I hoped, but it should hurt you more. I possess all of the evidence necessary to expose your past—your military records, the various names you assumed, even a list of the innocent people you have tortured over the years.
What you must now fear most is that I have an advantage beyond anything you could have devised yourself. I am dying. My life is over. There is no longer anything you can do that could hurt me.
Now I am in control. There is no way in the world that you can avoid disgrace—dead or alive. Find me if you can.
There was no need for a signature. The deadly game had resumed.
One day later, Victor Stalbo received a call from his most trusted editor at Pravda. “Oleg Kerchenko has received a letter from an unknown source. It’s about you.” There was a pause and then the editor added almost superfluously, “It’s not complimentary. I think you should see it. Kerchenko claims the author will send two more in substantiation.”
Stalbo hung up the phone without responding. An hour later, Oleg Kerchenko was in one of those rooms deep within the KGB headquarters building. Stalbo, however, was unable to witness the interrogation because he had taken a call from a high-level member of the CPSU who had received a different letter. The individual felt that the general should understand the impact of the contents since the writer intended to substantiate the facts within a few days. While it would definitely affect Stalbo, the Party leader was careful to explain the more important impact on the KGB and the Party should the charges have any basis in fact.
There were two other calls that day, each from reliable informants. Both individuals had been made aware of data different from the other. Could General Stalbo clarify these distorted charges? Did he know who was sending this damaging information? Was it possible that this person could cause serious trouble for the general—and even more, for the Party and the KGB?
Victor Stalbo was being drawn into a web, an ever-tightening one, and its intricate planning left him with no options. He couldn’t possibly detain each of the recipients, especially those well-placed, without making his own fear—more likely his guilt—evident. His only chance was to place himself in the center of the web and destroy the spider before the fatal sting.
MALLORCA
MORRISON’S STORY
In his self-appointed role as beneficent spirit, coordinating the last days of Larisa Alushta meant a great deal to Daken, for it was the only time he could remember such an emotion. It was his way of paying a debt that had originated in a hospital near Stockholm years before. He had even assisted in preparing her detailed expose of Victor Stalbo from Morrison’s earlier research, then selected the recipients of her letters.
When the words passed from Sister Teresa to Father Leon, and eventually through the hierarchy to Daken that Larisa was weakening, it was his decision alone to inform Morrison. In no way did he feel he was breaking faith with Larisa. It seemed the right thing to do. Daken had always avoided relationships, but he was sure he was enlightened enough to feel that they would want to be together in those last days. He’d even gone to the trouble of arriving in Palma the night before to assure himself that arrangements were set for Morrison. And to be on the safe side, if propriety demanded, he even brought along Chase, the forensics expert whom the others nicknamed “The Chemist” to honor his diverse capabilities.
It would have been difficult for anyone unfamiliar with KGB operations to conceive of how Victor Stalbo learned that Larisa Alushta was living out her final days in Mallorca. The Soviet intelligence organization was efficient because it involved itself in the everyday life of each citizen under its wing. It was routine for district offices to check the medical reports of every hospital and every physician for any unusual occurrences. Such ingenuity would not provide for instant intelligence, but eventually the KGB in Rostock noted that a woman had contracted a malignancy apparently stemming from extremely uncommon internal damage years before. Once the report was brought to the attention of one of Stalbo’s aides, and the general realized who this woman was, it was simply a matter of time until they traced Larisa to Santa Ponsa. Victor Stalbo had never trusted the inevitability of nature, not even the virulence of cancer, when his own life was being counted in days, perhaps even hours.
Although his agents in Palma were competent and efficient, Victor Stalbo explained that he would not rest until he viewed the body himself. What they didn’t understand was that Stalbo could not allow anyone else to find those remaining papers. He might even have avoided detection in his round trip from Moscow if Chase hadn’t recognized a particular Russian face in a Palma bar, one that could not be forgotten. Nikitin’s particular talents challenged even an expert like Chase to comprehend man’s inhumanity to man. It had been known for years that Nikitin left the Soviet capital only to travel with Victor Stalbo, and then only under the most unusual circumstances.
“I feel badly for Morrison,” Daken said the morning the plane from the States was due. “I didn’t anticipate this. I really can’t imagine how Stalbo located her so quickly.” He was explaining to Chase why, after the long trip from Atlanta, they would have to keep Morrison under wraps and away from Stalbo. “I’m sure Jack would go after the bastard with his bare hands. Can you imagine the howl from Moscow and Washington if one of our people did in Stalbo? I mean, I won’t mind seeing the contract completed one little bit, but we can’t afford to have Morrison do it.”
“I can’t think of anyone who deserves the chance more than Morrison, if you want my opinion. If half of that wild story is true, I think he ought to have the chance to tear Stalbo apart piece by piece. And maybe we could throw in Nikitin as a bonus.” Chase’s eyes narrowed and his mustache twitched in anger. “If I had to guess, I’d say that Nikitin was probably the butcher who did those things to the girl years ago.”
As if to impress upon Chase that he really hated doing what he had to do, Daken concluded, “I’ll probably hate myself forever for this, but I know how they think back in Washington, and I’m the one who makes the decisions in this part of the world.” He looked at his watch and decided, “First we neutralize Morrison at the airport. Then we’ll get out to that village of theirs and see if we can get hold of the girl before Stalbo does.”
Morrison never suspected a thing as he followed Daken’s instructions and ran from the terminal in Palma to the waiting BMW. His mind was occupied with Larisa, and he was taken by surprise with Daken’s concern that he might be a target. It was already too late when it dawned on him that everything wasn’t right. What was Chase doing here? And he would never forget the guilty look on Chase’s face as the drug hit him like a ton of bricks. He vaguely heard Daken say, “Son of a bitch. I never hated myself before,” then turn back towards the wheel as they raced out of the airport.
