 
### Last Hurrah for an Evil Empire

By Casey Cavanaugh

Smashwords Edition

Published by MilSpeak Books

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Copyright © 2010 Casey Cavanaugh

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Acknowledgments

The following are gratefully acknowledged for their contribution to _Last Hurrah_. Some are known; some unknown. Some names are real; some not. I thank them all - when their country called, they gave everything.

U.S.

Wiggins, L. R. Colonel, US Army

Murray, M. Lieutenant Colonel, US Army

Barber, Sergeant, 502d MI Bn

Ivy, W.R. First Lieutenant, 502d MI Bn – Army Ranger 2nd Bn

Shephard, A., US Army MI

Salvant, L., 4th. MI

Overaker, A., 4th. MI

Richards, A.K., US

Church, K., 502d MI Bn

Semft, G., US MI

Smith, A., 502d MI Bn

Bare, R., CIA

Holland, Dan R. Colonel, USMC

U.K.

Vale, R., MI-6

Wright, P., MI-5

U.S.S.R.

Suvorav, V., Red Army GRU

Putin, V., KGB

Mytrokin, V., KGB

Kryuchkov, V., KGB

Korabelnikov, V., General, Red Army GRU

R.O.K.

Choe, Sang So, Colonel, ROK Army AIU

Kim, K. T., Captain, ROK Army AIU

****

Glossary of Intelligence Terms

Agent

A provider of information who knowingly acts for another entity or country

Bring-Up Investigation

An investigation that is triggered with a previous security clearance suspense date. It is scheduled every 3 to 5 years.

Burst Transmission

A fast method for transmitting coded signals over a short wave transmitter in a very short (5 – 10 seconds) time. Usually required is a recording device, such as a small tape recorder that is either battery or steel spring powered. The Soviet Union originated this type of transmission. Now reportedly replaced by blast transmission, a faster method.

Clandestine

Secret or anonymous means of pursuing an intelligence collection goal. A methodology of collecting intelligence information without the target's knowledge of the effort. The target is unaware that he has been compromised, or that he has been targeted. The term stresses anonymity and secrecy.

Classified

A term used for categorizing important and secret information. In the US system, the lowest classified information is Confidential, then Secret, and finally Top Secret.

Code

A method of substituting meaningless character information for readable text. Requires a key to code, and, a key to return the coded information to readable text.

Conveyor

GRU term that refers to being drugged and covertly taken back to the Soviet Union. If they suspect you are going to defect or a traitor, it's the 'conveyor'.

Courier

A clandestine operative that receives information from a source, an agent or dead drop, and delivers it to another higher up operative. A courier does not usually collect intelligence information. His job is to receive information from one source, and transfer it to another operative.

Covert

An effort to secretly compromise a target country and hide the aggressor country's identity. This usually refers to disinformation, assassination, or destabilization of a foreign power. The target country is usually aware of a covert effort through the results. They suspect, but can't identify the source. An operation of this type affords the aggressor country plausible denial.

Dangle

An operative that is sent to opposition intelligence to create confusion by reporting false information. He then reports back to the host intelligence agency.

Dead Drop (ex. letter drop)

Hiding place where information is left for someone else to retrieve. It may be an out of the way place not frequented by others. There is usually a container which paper, photographic film, or other material is placed. Usually associated with a load and unload sign.

Espionage

The act of illegally stealing secret or classified information.

Exfiltration (ex. exfil)

The crossing of a border or country's boundary by an individual on an intelligence mission. Exfiltration is the exit of a country. White exfiltration is through uncovered or overt means and usually through a border inspection station, or a customs or controlled crossing boundary point. Black exfiltration is through a border or boundary, and is not observed or discovered by the target country, and is not through a controlled crossing point.

Infiltration (ex. infil)

A crossing of a border or country's boundary by an individual on an intelligence mission. Infiltration is the entry of a country. White infiltration is through uncovered or overt means and usually through a border inspection station, a customs or controlled crossing boundary. Black infiltration is through a border or boundary and is not observed or discovered by the target country, and is not through a controlled crossing point.

K###

One of several Soviet Navy's submarine numbering system. The K is followed by numbers, as in K137.

GRU

The Soviet (now Russian) Army Spy Agency. Translates to Main Intelligence Administration.

KGB

A rough translation is Committee for State Security. It is the Soviet Secret Police Force, Border Defense, Counter Intelligence, and foreign spy organization. It is extremely large and operates around the globe. The foreign Intelligence agency is now the SVRR.

Mission

A nation state approved intelligence effort. It has a clear objective, and implies command support, timing, and adequate funding.

Radio Agent

An agent that transmits coded information to another country by coded radio signals. He does not normally engage in espionage. His primary responsibility is to transmit and receive information via short wave transceiver.

Source

The originating provider of information. They are usually an agent of foreign power. They could be a witting or an unwitting agent.

Spetsnatz

The Soviet Army's special commando forces. Comparable to the US Army Rangers.

SOSUS

Sound Surveillance System. During the cold war, this was a highly classified US ocean monitoring system to track Soviet submarines worldwide.

SRI

Specific Request for Intelligence. An acronym to detail a requirement that may be used as authority to mount a clandestine collection mission.

Transceiver

Short wave radio receiver and transmitter in one case. They are very compact, usually the size of a pack of cigarettes. They are battery powered, and are attached with a coding/uncoding, or Morse code device.

Uncovered

Implies the use of visible and non-secret means. A Chinese fishing junk is an uncovered method of water transport. A submarine is a covered means of transport.

Unwitting

An agent, or source that provides information, and is unaware he is providing information to the true collection authority. He or she may be unaware information is being provided.

Witting

An agent or source that provides intelligence information, and is fully aware of his or her effort.

****

Dramatis Personae

U.S.

Doug Clarke

Special Agent in Charge, Albuquerque, NM Field Office.

Brett Culpepper

FBI Special Agent. Chief Counter Intelligence Section, Albuquerque, NM Field Office

Frank Johnson

Mechanical Engineer Gerhing, Haskell and Rosen (GHR) Engineering, Hanover, VA

Jim McClain

US Army CI Special Agent, Washington/Baltimore, Md.

John Parent

PhD. Weapons Designer Los Alamos National Laboratory, Los Alamos, NM

Clyde Riddle

Nuclear Weapons Assembler Pantex Ordnance Facility, Amarillo, TX

Scott Tripp

Ex US Army CI Agent, informant, and Accountant, Albuquerque, NM

Arthur Van Hodges III

Assistant to the Deputy Secretary for Eastern European Policy US State Department, Washington, DC

Charlie Waters

Perfect Baby Diaper Service deliveryman, Laurel, MD

U.S.S.R.

Vassily Nolitsyn

Major, KGB, Soviet Embassy, Washington, D.C.

Dmitry Padorin

Major Red Army GRU. Third GRU (US) Directorate

Viktor Rostov

Lieutenant Colonel, KGB Chief Resident, Soviet Embassy, Washington, D.C.

Igor Yuchenko

General, Red Army. Chief, Third Directorate, KGB, Moscow, U.S.S.R.

Boris Zloty

Captain, Soviet Navy. Commander, K137 November Class Submarine

****

As the sun began to set on a once great empire, desperation slowly gripped its staunchest champions.

This is the story of the courageous few, who fought to hold off that final sunset.

When your country calls, give everything....

****

### What's Going on Here?

From a small office in Albuquerque's Old Town, Scott Tripp took a break from his tax prep work. He had just finished three hours on a client's quarterly payroll report. He stood up, stretched, and, from his second floor office window, gazed at the street scene below. End of day clamor filled the air. A slight movement to the right caught his attention, and, as he looked closer, Scott could see someone standing at the entrance to an alley.

The man wore dark clothing and a gray hat that was pulled low over his face. The stranger scrutinized the area intently. Seeing no one, he quickly stepped into the alley. Less than 30 seconds later, the stranger reappeared and rapidly walked up Romero Street. He then turned the corner on Church Street and was soon out of sight.

Scott's instincts said something was up.

As a former Army Intelligence agent, Scott had an inquisitive mind. He returned to his desk, and hastily wrote some details of the last few minutes. It was almost 5:15 p.m., so he cleared his desk, locked the door, and made his way down the stairs. Seconds later, he stepped off the landing on the first floor, and slowly walked down the sidewalk toward the alley. An odor of Mexican food permeated the air. It was late in the day. The sun's rays were long and red in the October sky.

Scott was startled to see a second man walk down the street in the direction of the same alley. Scott quickly stepped behind a parked van. The second man stopped at the alley entrance, and intently scanned the area. Seeing no one, the man entered and, less than 45 seconds later, exited the alley. Scott's training kicked in, and he began to follow the second man. Two blocks away, the man got into a dark blue pickup truck with a white camper. The vehicle started and rapidly drove up San Felipe and out of sight. The entire episode was extraordinarily silent and swift. It played like a Buster Keaton movie in fast frame.

It was a little after 5:30 p.m., but with the help of a street light Scott was able to see the last three digits on the camper plate: '392'. He also made a mental note of the second man's description: blue jeans, dark shirt, baseball hat, medium build, Caucasian, 35 – 45 years old.

Scott then walked to the alley and looked around. He didn't see anything out of the norm, however an uneasy feeling came over him. His Counter Intelligence training kicked in. CI told him: _Something is going on here that shouldn't be._

He returned to his office and typed out a one page 'report' on his new 'Quick-Rite' word processor. The report detailed the men, the pickup truck, and the partial license plate. He read it over a couple of times thinking, _This is pretty good_. _I have to call Brett. There may be something here, like drugs. Maybe there is a good chance to get some extra cash for my info._

"Brett, Scott Tripp here."

"Hi Scott, what's up?"

"I just spotted a couple of suspicious men in an alley across the street, and there is more to this than some guy taking a leak. Are you interested?"

Brett, who was somewhat older than Scott and had been his CI mentor, thought, _Oh brother, what's the kid having now?_ "So this is a Federal case, taking a leak in an alley?" he asked Scott.

"Maybe, could be. Come by and look. I have an AR. That's an Agent Report, Brett." Scott was smiling into the telephone receiver.

"I know what an AR is, Scott! Today, maybe tomorrow."

Scott sighed, "Good. Thanks, Brett."

Brett thought, _What the hell? It's on the way home._

Scott respected Brett and had learned from Brett's many years in the Counter Intelligence business. Scott knew from experience that Brett could smell a spy a mile away.

FBI Special Agent Brett Culpepper sighed with irritation as he exited Interstate 40 and headed toward Albuquerque's Old Town. Brett wondered if Scott's call was going to be another false lead, another waste of time. Brett and Scott had met at the local Albuquerque Field Office of the 8th U.S. Army Intelligence Group, and, because Brett and Scott were both in Counter Intelligence, they had met at various CI interagency board meetings, hit it off, and had stayed in touch. Brett was well aware that Scott, only twenty-five, tended to exaggerate just a little, and called in a lot of tips that rarely, if ever, turned out to be important. But, Brett was dedicated and would follow through.

After parking his sedan near Scott's brick building and pulling his jacket closer in the chilly wind, Brett walked into the Old Town Tax Service office a little after 6:15 p.m. on October 25, 1989. The sun was almost gone and Romero Street was a little more peaceful.

"Hi, Brett," Scott said eagerly, rising from his desk with his hand out. His blue eyes sparkled with excitement. His dark brown hair and youthful features made him look almost out of place in a suit and tie.

After a firm handshake, Brett grabbed a chair on the opposite side of the desk and wearily sat down.

"I just reread the report I was telling you about," Scott continued, his hands moving nervously as he talked.

"Within ten minutes of one another, two men walked into a blind alley just up the street. I attempted to follow the second guy, and got the license plate number off his camper. It's a partial."

He slid the sheet of paper across the desk to Brett.

Brett quickly scanned the report. "Did you get what they were wearing: glasses, clothing, etcetera?"

"The first guy was dressed casually, dark blue pants, Dockers maybe, and he was wearing one of those funny wool hats with a small brim. It's in the report."

Brett grunted and nodded, remembering an old photo of his grandfather wearing one of those hats while fishing on a riverbank in Ireland. "Oh, yeah," he said, "the Micks wear 'em."

"Right, one of those. So, two hundred dollars is reasonable?"

Avoiding Scott's question about money, Brett added, "What made you suspicious?"

"Well, they sure made an obvious attempt not to be seen. They were very conscious of that. Another question is what were two men doing in the alley less than 10 minutes of each other?"

"Yeah, I kinda see what you mean." Brett paused, then added, "Well, here's the deal. I'll give you a hundred now, but if we have further questions, you'll have to cooperate, and you might get more. Ex Army Counter Intelligence Agents are a dime a dozen in Albuquerque and I can get this info almost anywhere."

Scott frowned, his mouth drooping with disappointment. "Okay, but if there is anything else, I'll have to charge you by the hour."

Visibly irritated by Scott's comment, Brett ignored his question, and handed Scott a couple of rumpled fifty-dollar bills. Producing a receipt, Brett said, "Sign here."

Obviously dejected, Scott took the receipt, signed it, and pushed it back across the table.

Brett removed a carbon copy and said, "For your tax records."

Scott retorted, "Thanks."

At home that night, Brett reread Scott's report. He jotted down a few notes on a legal pad, and placed it in his briefcase. Tomorrow, Brett would type his Agent Report – ARs are the lifeblood of the Counter Intelligence business. An agent doesn't make a move unless an AR is on a supervisor's desk.

Brett, fifteen-year FBI agent, was presently assigned to the Albuquerque, New Mexico, Field Office Counter Intelligence section. An attorney turned federal agent, his disgust with defending guilty rich people who were milking the system had caused him to seek an FBI career. No matter the issue that brought him to his present employer, the U.S. Government, Brett had always been goal-oriented. His skills as an agent were sharpened by years of defending big-time drug dealers, con artists, and spies. He considered himself a typical American white male, married with two kids, one now in college.

Tired from a long day's work, Brett moved his six-foot-two frame quietly to the bedroom where his wife of twenty years slept. As he prepared for bed, he took a good look at himself in the bathroom mirror. The specks of gray appearing in his thick, dark hair showed the wear-and-tear of his forty-five years. He had recently overheard a female agent say that his face seemed carved from granite. He wasn't sure what that meant, but his deep-set brown eyes and hard mouth looked stern to him...maybe too stern.

_And I like women_ , he thought, chuckling. A good thing, too – the Feds were terrified of homosexuality, which, because of the social stigma, made gay agents a target for blackmail. But so did mistresses, gambling, and addiction. Brett didn't have those worries – he was straight, loyal, and committed to the extreme. So much so that being laced so tight was almost abnormal.

The following day, Brett gave his AR to Doug Clarke, Special Agent in Charge (SAIC) of the Albuquerque Office of the FBI. Clarke had over 50 agents in his office. Brett was one of his best. He rarely questioned Brett's competence.

"Okay Brett, follow up and get more details."

"Yes, sir. I'll contact my source this afternoon."

Later that day, Brett and Scott walked down the street from Scott's office to examine the alley.

As Brett approached the area with some caution, a gut-level feeling nagged at him. The alley was a dead end with red brick walls, two stories high on all three sides. The space created by the walls contained a small garbage dumpster, cardboard boxes, and a door set into the wall at the dead end. The cardboard boxes looked like shelters for the homeless. The solid steel door at the dead end had no handle, no window, and no outside lock. From the dusty and cobwebbed appearance, Brett saw that it hadn't been opened in months, possibly years. A slight odor of urine hung in the air.

Brett said, "So, this is it?"

"Yeah, both guys disappeared into here."

"How long did the first man stay here?"

"Thirty, forty seconds, no more."

"The second man?"

"About the same time...maybe a little longer."

"Did either carry anything, a briefcase or a backpack?"

"No, nothing I could see."

"Scott, I don't see this as a drug deal. Drug deals are made face to face. If the first guy hid the drugs in the alley, and the second guy retrieved them, then where and when was the money paid? There was no time to do that."

"Well, maybe they knew one another, and met later?"

They both looked at one another and said, "No, I don't think so."

After a closer inspection of the alley, the dumpster, the boxes, and the door, they found nothing out of place or suspicious.

"Okay, Scott. I think we're done here. I have to get back to work."

"What do you think Brett?"

"Well, maybe it's just a coincidence."

"Okay. Could be."

In the back of his mind Brett felt this could be a dead drop and recovery location. His mind quickly wandered into Soviet spy mode with a dead drop scenario rising to the top.

Dead drop. The Russians call it a letter drop; the British call it simply a drop. Small spaces in tree trunks, under rocks, in an alley, or in a public restroom served as dead drop locations, safe and secure places that enable information to be passed between agent and courier. Within a short distance of the drop, a load sign – like a chalk mark on a dumpster, or a tacked up note – is made visible to indicate something has been deposited.

Brett knew the Counter Intelligence field in New Mexico cold. The state had an overwhelmingly large and secretive Counter Intelligence community, with almost every Federal agency represented – the CI environment in New Mexico was like an alphabet soup of Federal agencies. From National Security Agency, to Central Intelligence Agency, to Federal Bureau of Investigation, to U.S. Army Counter Intelligence, and all the way to U.S. Customs Service. More CI agents operated in New Mexico than in any other state. If you were a foreigner living in New Mexico, your garbage pickup occasionally had that 'personal touch'. Why? New Mexico was home to highly classified research, storage, production, and disposal of nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons. Many important military weapons manufacturers' research and development laboratories were based in New Mexico. Citizens of any Soviet Bloc or Communist country are forbidden to travel to New Mexico for any reason. The Roth-Hyde Amendment to the Foreign Missions Act of 1982 effectively addressed that issue.

****

### Behind the Curtain

Eight thousand miles away from Albuquerque, Major Vladimir Zhukov marched down the gray granite hallway in KGB Headquarters outside Moscow. A large and imposing wooden door at the end of the hallway beckoned him. Once he was inside, the buxom young secretary recognized him. She stepped into a private office. The major leaned forward, to listen, and caught the secretary's muffled voice relaying his presence, "Major Zhukov is here, sir."

The major didn't hear a reply.

She returned, and said, "The General will see you now."

"Thank you."

Stepping inside the private inner office, Major Zhukov came to the position of attention, in awe of his surroundings, as was each time he visited the General's stupendous office. The ceiling was at least 12 feet high. Oak-paneled walls were hung with large paintings of former Soviet leaders. A huge Oak desk at least 10 feet long dominated the room and rested on carpet thick enough to make walking difficult. Built-in bookcases, a conference table that could seat 20 – the list of furnishings for the room could constitute a museum log. But this was no guardhouse for artifacts of humanity. Safe to say, the General was one of the most important, highly decorated men in the KGB.

General Aleksei Yuchenko leaned back in his red leather chair, glanced at the major, and waited. Like most Soviet Generals, he smoked almost continuously.

"Good morning, sir."

"Morning Major, what do you have?"

"Drop A34 was cleared on 25 October, sir."

"And?"

"The drop was unloaded on time. He is on to his next stop."

"Where?"

"Chicago, in three days."

"Very well, keep me informed."

"Yes, sir, thank you."

Major Zhukov exited the office and beat a hasty retreat back to the communications section in the basement.

That same day, at the Soviet GRU training center near Zagorsk, Major Dmitry Padorin reported for an 8-hour class in American English and idioms, the strange catch phrases that make sense to people in different regions of a country. He settled into his seat, and listened intently to the instructor. Today's lecture covered New Orleans idioms of Louisiana. _Maybe I will use it, maybe not,_ he thought. _What does 'pan fried' mean anyway?_ Major Padorin, an experienced GRU agent with three missions under his belt, was almost as American as apple pie.

GRU – The Soviet Army spy agency – is the Russian equivalent of spy work on fast forward. Wine them, dine them, love them, and spy them. All in one night. They are a practiced friendly competitor of the KGB. At any rate, physical training was in the afternoon, and his 40-year-old body would respond as if it were 20. A tough and physically fit ex-Spetsnaz commando, Dmitry Padorin knew America well.

****

### The Truck

FBI support staffer Sheila Boggs was assigned to the Old Town Alley issue. Through NCIC database, she entered the three digits and the vehicle description. The computer generated 17 truck and 8 camper plates. But Scott had given them a partial camper plate number. In some states, camper license plates are different from vehicle plates. Sheila reported the results to Brett.

After analyzing the data, Brett selected four possible matches, one each in California, Arizona, Idaho, and Texas. Sheila contacted the State Police to check the camper plate numbers for vehicle color, model, and year.

Again, Brett met with Scott, and showed him the photographs.

"None of these look close, Brett. The camper was white, and the truck was dark blue."

"You sure about the color?"

"I am. No question about it. I know white from blue from green from black. Did you bring more money?"

Ignoring him, Brett retorted, "We'll keep looking. I have other irons in the fire, so I have to go. I'll call you later."

That left Scott with his mouth open, and his hands empty.

Brett left, and called Sheila from his car. Still not positive he had a match, he told her to run a check on the next group from back east. She began the analysis of the remaining seven possible camper plate numbers.

****

### Scott Tripp

Originally from Miami, Florida, Scott chose to stay in New Mexico after his discharge from military active duty. He missed the challenge of Army Counter Intelligence, but military service didn't pay well. He simply wanted to make more money. After taking college night classes, and completing his undergraduate studies as a civilian, he graduated from the University of New Mexico with a degree in Finance. He majored in Tax Accounting. Scott enjoyed the labyrinth of tax law. Discovering loopholes was a welcome challenge.

Scott Tripp was a young man of 25, 6 feet tall and good-looking. People said he looked like Ricky Nelson, the movie star. Unmarried, he was still looking for the right woman. He was a man on the move. Alone in the world, he was used to being on his own, being responsible for himself.

After months of saving and working for others, he opened his own tax preparation office, Old Town Tax Services, LLC. His office was on the second floor of an historical building in downtown Albuquerque's "Old Town." The space was fairly inexpensive. The office had large windows facing northwest. New wall-to-wall carpeting provided a touch of class. Scott furnished the place with a second hand desk, bookcase, a PC, and the appropriate furniture, which conveyed confidence to his clientele.

Three years ago, Scott's Army CI Field Office discovered several possible espionage leads, but the FBI took charge of the investigation. They always took the best leads, and hence, the most important cases. Unless it was a case directly involving the military, the FBI did not notify the Army of any investigation.

****

### BlueDog

General Aleksei Yuchenko, Chief of the KGB Third Directorate, is very familiar with 'Charlie Waters' because of his extensive dossier. Charlie Waters had been a courier for the Soviet Union for 21 years. He was one of the best the KGB ever recruited. His code name was assigned in the 70s – 'Blue' for loyalty to the Soviet State, and 'Dog' for detail and perseverance. The Soviet Union was happy to pay Mr. Waters for the voluminous information delivered from sources in Texas, Virginia, California, and New Mexico.

His sources were forever shielded from direct Soviet contact. The American secrets Charlie delivered were priceless.

Back in '84, from this Texas spy codenamed BlueDog, the Soviets obtained the most powerful solid fuel propellant formula for the MX missile. Charlie delivered the W88 design details – the miniaturized version of most thermonuclear warheads – and the newest torpedo design, the Mark 50, to Soviet agents who had been embedded in the U.S. for many years. The information BlueDog supplied kept the Soviet Rocket Forces up to par with the Americans. Soviet nuclear warheads were equal in size, and destructive power to those held in the U.S., and the solid fuel formulas provided by BlueDog made the Soviet boosters just as fast, and powerful as the U.S.'s.

If BlueDog were discovered, the information flow from at least six Soviet agents would cease.

In late November 1989, it was time for BlueDog's periodic dossier review. General Yuchenko appointed a team to write the report. The team completed the review in less than 10 days, and suggested a few updates to the file. Nothing important, just a couple of notations, dates, locations, etc. The General agreed and BlueDog was cleared for another five years. A photograph was also requested to update the now eight-centimeters thick file.

****

### Winding Things Up a Little

Later that same afternoon, Brett drove to Scott's office near closing time, and asked him to look at a new group of truck photographs.

"Brett, this is too much. If you want me to do more work, I gotta have more money."

"Fine, if you come up with anything that can be verified, then maybe. Now earn your money."

The next day Scott took the photos to his office. In his spare time, he studied the photographs. That night, Scott was tired and went to bed early.

At 3:00 a.m., Scott sat upright in bed, his mind racing: _Why couldn't I see the first three digits of the camper plate?_ _Because a lawn chair was strapped to the back of the camper, blocking the plate numbers!_

Grabbing a magnifying glass, Scott closely inspected a photograph of a camper. He couldn't see anything to attach a lawn chair to the rear of the camper. But the picture of the camper in Maryland had what appeared to be some metal hooks on the back. The hooks could be used for securing a bicycle, or, maybe even a lawn chair.

Scott called Brett the next morning in an excited state.

"Brett, I need a couple of things from your people in Maryland. A close-up of the rear of the camper. Is a lawn chair or bicycle on the camper, or stored nearby? I know I asked before, but can they get a picture of the owner?"

"OK, OK, OK. Keep your pants on. I'll see what I can do."

A few days later, two Maryland FBI Agents paid a call on a man named Max, a petty thief awaiting sentencing for a series of home burglaries. They knocked, but walked right into his apartment before Max could open the door. The short story is that the agents wanted Max to break into a garage in the university district of Laurel, Maryland. Max wasn't supposed to steal anything.

"Let me understand this. You want me to break into a house...excuse me...a garage, and take some pictures, and not take anything?"

"Correct. Use your tools to open the door, go in, and take some pictures. This is a list of items we want to see. Here's the camera. You don't need a flash. Just point, focus, and shoot. You're invisible. Don't get caught. Take the shots, exit the garage, lock the door. Clean. Clear?"

Max replied, "Yeah. I understand. What do I get for this little job?"

"You get to stay out of jail."

Max thought about this for a moment. _These people, they sure are strange. Whatever, I'll do what they want. Why? Because it will keep me out of the joint. Maybe I'll keep the camera._ "OK, I get it. It'll take a couple of days, maybe three."

"Good. Here's the address, plus pictures of the house and garage. Call this number when you're done. Time is important. Do not open the camera. Bring the camera back."

"Sure...Okay. I got it"

Max, who considered himself a professional burglar, was also an informant. He gave the local cops information on 'cousins', or, as they were better known, criminals. It was a sort of a 'franchise fee'. Max provided information, and the cops paid by keeping him out of the joint. But Max had to produce by helping to put bigger fish in the joint. The big fish were the fences or brokers. Smaller fish were the customers who bought stolen goods directly from Max. More importantly, he had to stay alive, and not become known as a rat, a squealer.

For two days Max sat in his car and watched the house in Laurel. He took several pictures of the subject. Early on day three, the subject departed the area by driving away in a Honda Civic. Obviously, the pickup and camper must be in the garage. Good!

Max waited thirty minutes, worked his way down the block to the back of the subject's house. He then picked the lock of the door at the rear of the garage. He entered and saw a blue pickup with a white camper. He searched the entire garage, making note of the contents.

He took the obligatory photographs. Stuffed between the pickup bed and the camper shell was a green lawn chair. Yep, that was on the list. Wrapped around the chair was a bungee cord. After completing his assignment in less than ten minutes, Max reset the lock and exited the garage. Nothing was disturbed; nothing was out of place. The owner wouldn't notice anything amiss, because nothing had been touched.

And in Amarillo, Texas, a good ol' boy bought a brand new engine for his 1970 Chevy Malibu. He paid top dollar for the engine. He worked for Pantex Ordnance Facility. This was where the U.S. assembled, disassembled, shipped, received components for, and disposed of all nuclear weapons in the Department of Defense arsenal.

****

### Ivan

For 12 years, Charlie "BlueDog" Waters had been a Perfect Baby Diaper Service contractor. His work record was sterling. He had client accounts in D.C., lower Maryland, and northern Virginia. His Perfect Baby Diaper route did not take him to even one government official's house. In fact, his route was nowhere near those neighborhoods. He hadn't had a single issue with any customer.

His employer had received recommendations from several mothers on his route.

In 1976, Charlie moved from San Francisco to Maryland. He was urged to move at his handler's request. Ivan had asked him to get a job that was unobtrusive but afforded him easy movement without attracting attention. In Maryland, Charlie worked several casual and temporary jobs for a period of six months, until he spotted an ad in the newspaper for the diaper service. Not many people would want a diaper delivery job, but it afforded Charlie movement in most areas around Washington. Ivan agreed that this job was good cover. Charlie fell into the job easily. He rented an apartment outside Baltimore. Seven years later, he bought a small house in the university district near Laurel, Maryland.

Soon after moving to Maryland, Charlie went to a local grocery store on a Saturday morning. Ivan, his handler, had directed him to be at the store on that day at 10:00 a.m.

The designated time arrived. Ivan walked by. No recognition, no nod of the head, nothing to tie the two together. But Charlie instantly understood. Ivan discreetly followed Charlie home. New address noted. Two weeks later, they met in a parking garage in suburban Maryland to plan operations. Ivan gave him a folded packet of instructions concerning how and when to conduct business.

Over the years, Charlie and Ivan met two to three times a year, always in different locations. The meetings lasted three minutes, never more. Sometimes Ivan wouldn't show up, because he couldn't shake surveillance. Charlie understood that was a cost of doing business.

****

### Case Review

Following the investigative efforts by the Rockville Field Office, a few more questions were answered. Brett again met with Scott at his Old Town office.

"Okay Scott. Here's what we have. In the garage we found a green lawn chair wedged between the camper and the truck bed. A bungee cord was wrapped around it. Here are the photos. Take a look, and see if anything looks familiar."

"This looks like it, camper color is right," Scott replied.

"How about the plate? Take a good look at the back of the camper."

"Yeah, this is so close. Even the plate number fits.

"How about the photo? Does he look like the man you saw in the alley?"

"I can't tell for sure. His back was to me the entire time."

"Okay, thanks."

"What about the other hundred bucks?"

"It looks good, you will probably get it, maybe more."

"Great, time is money. Thanks Brett."

Brett concluded that the alley event was of official interest. There was simply too much coincidence. Two people stopping within minutes of each other at the same place in a seldom-used alley had the earmarks of a dead drop and recovery. The incident warranted a thorough review with the Albuquerque Special Agent in Charge. It was possible that a crime on the Federal level had been committed.

Still, Brett wondered, _Who was the first man, the guy wearing the 'Mick' hat? Was he loading a drop? We have almost nothing to tie the two men together. Was it simply a drug deal? I don't think so. This Waters guy isn't a drug dealer._

Brett returned to his office, his questions lingering. With SAIC Doug Clarke – Special Agent in Charge of the Albuquerque field office and Brett's immediate supervisor – Brett reviewed the results of the meeting with Scott. The two agents discussed a possible operations base in Maryland. Brett requested a complete Background Investigation (BI) on Charlie Waters. SAIC Clarke signed the order. By policy, the U.S. Attorney for the District of New Mexico had to be formally notified.

Doug Clarke suspected that a spy ring could be operating at one of the labs, a likely scenario considering the types of weaponry under construction, and in development. An SOI, Summary of Investigation, was forwarded to the SAIC in Rockville, Maryland. No further derogatory talk at the Rockville Maryland Field office was heard. Everyone involved now believed the innocent looking diaper delivery guy, Charlie Waters, the man with a lawn chair strapped to the back of his truck, could be a spy. Doug believed the scenario feasible and asked for a conference call between the three men who would decide if an operation was underway in the alleyway as Scott had reported he believed: Doug, Brett, and the U.S. Attorney.

Via phonecon, the U.S. Attorney said, "Doug, as of this moment, you have nothing. You have no evidence, no suspects, no crime. You have a long way to go before I get interested." The connection fell silent for a moment, and then he continued, "As of now, no violation of any Federal Law has occurred. All you have is suspicion. Your person of interest isn't a wanted man. Legally you must tread lightly."

"Yes, sir," bird dog Brett Culpepper responded, acknowledging the legal leash around his neck. As though in a dance of subtle symbolism with the U.S. Attorney, Brett and Doug were both aware the attorney was giving permission to proceed, albeit covert permission. Brett knew the drill; he couldn't make any mistakes that a defense attorney would later discover for use in petitioning a trial judge to dismiss charges against Charlie Waters – if in fact Brett was able to bring the case to trial.

****

### Charlie – You're the Man

Brett went to work putting together the pieces of the puzzle that was Charlie Waters, diaper deliveryman. Charlie Waters was not registered to vote, and did not belong to any known political or religious groups, clubs, or associations. A Mail Cover check (MC) revealed that no suspicious or pornographic material was delivered to his home, and, more importantly, he received no seditious or subversive literature. Phone records reveal only local calls. He lived alone, and had never been married. He had few acquaintances. His parents died in an auto accident 15 years ago, and he had no other known relatives.

A Federal adjudicator reviewed the BI results, but found nothing that suggested Charlie Waters might be a security risk. He had demonstrated against the Vietnam War in the 60s, but so had half the country. Waters had never been arrested or charged with a felony. How he escaped arrest during his anti-war activities was unknown. There was no proof that he was a dangerous or violent person. If Charlie were to apply for a security clearance, he probably would be awarded a Certificate of Clearance. This meant if he had a need-to-know, and was in a position for employment requiring a clearance, he would be cleared to handle and read 'Secret' classified documents pertaining to the execution of his duties.

Charlie normally took a three-week vacation in the fall and another in the spring. The Albuquerque incident occurred during his fall vacation, late October. However, if the camper license plate number was reported incorrectly, then everything falls apart, with only circumstantial evidence indicating Mr. Waters' presence in that alley on October 28th. Whatever had occurred, the activity wasn't drug related. The Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) confirmed that Waters was not known to be in the illegal drug business as a distributor or user.

But this information did not alter the fact that Waters could have driven 1892 miles to visit an alley in Albuquerque on his vacation. Of particular interest was that he had a credit card, but no charges for his suspected trip to New Mexico were recorded. It further bolstered the possibility this could be a case of mistaken identity.

Based on these facts as presented by Brett Culpepper, SAIC Doug Clarke concluded that further investigation was not warranted. At least not at the present time. Scott Tripp had reported facts and made his best effort to assist the FBI. Doug Clarke approved a $500 cash payment to Scott. On Christmas Eve 1989, he signed a receipt for the payment. Scott was not informed of the status of the investigation. In addition, Doug told Brett to drop the case – "If Waters takes another vacation and drives out west next year, we'll see."

Brett understood this drill, too. He had been given his marching orders. Duty demanded he follow orders. But for Brett, the notion of honor kept the case tugging at his thoughts.

****

### Life at the Soviet Embassy

In November 1989, Chief KGB Resident Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Rostov was ill with a very serious case of the Hong Kong flu. From his bed in his Washington, D.C. quarters, Rostov, a sick and barely coherent man, said to the man whom he knew as the only member of his D.C. staff with the field experience to personally handle a contact of the nature he was about to reveal, "Major Nolitsyn, I have an important assignment for you."

"Yes, sir," Major Vassily Nolitsyn responded.

"Go to the underground parking lot at the mall in Chevy Chase. Use my car. Wear my hat. It's in the car. There is a white card in the glove compartment with the number "4" printed on it. Park next to the G8 column. Display this blue laundry bag in the front passenger seat. A man carrying a bag should approach. Open the window. Be sure he sees the white card with the number on it. The contact will toss an identical bag into the seat. He will take the empty bag. Bring the bag back to me. Pickup time is 10:00 a.m., Nov. 12th. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, I want you to forget the incident."

"Yes, sir."

Instinctively, Vassily knew this was an important matter. Face-to-face meetings in the business were rare. Even more so, live handoffs were extremely dangerous because of potential exposure of a valuable human intelligence source.

On the day of the pick up, Vassily used his counter surveillance methods well, made the parking spot on time, and completed the assignment as instructed. Returning to the embassy, he placed the bag by the bed. A soft snore told him enough. As he left, he quietly closed the door. Told to forget his assignment, Vassily firmly placed it in the back of his mind. This was, obviously, an important assignment for a rising star in the KGB spy business; it said: "We trust you...a little."

Vassily Nolitsyn had been posted to the Soviet Embassy in D.C. for over two years. His cover was the position of Deputy Political Attaché within the Soviet embassy staff. He was assigned to handle casual walk-in informants, but his primary job was to service letter drops. They were numerous in his territory, mainly in D.C., northern Virginia, and southern Maryland. It was a big responsibility. Vassily's counter surveillance skills were among the best in the KGB. His superior, Chief Resident Viktor Rostov, Lieutenant Colonel KGB, with cover as Commercial Attaché, was pleased with Vassily's work.

Rostov was an aloof and stern boss. A 47-year-old White Russian, Viktor was the atypical KGB boss. Gray sideburns, barely 6 feet tall, slightly overweight, but fit. Rostov was in charge of an embassy Field Station of fifteen KGB officers and two GRU officers. Office paperwork was a maintenance nightmare; KGB's security requirements would drive anyone nuts.

Vassily managed to steer clear of trouble by keeping to himself.

****

### Shaking the Fox

42 years old, Vassily Nolitsyn was a graduate of the Counter Surveillance course at the KGB Training Center outside of Moscow. He knew the habits of Americans, and how they maintained surveillance. This kept him ahead of the game. His comrades had several counter surveillance scenarios; Vassily seemed to know them all. He had an uncanny instinct for understanding how Americans moved through their lives and their undercover operations.

Vassily was also notoriously casual about his letter drop movements. Large department stores have many entrances and exits, and the FBI only so many agents, so when Vassily was to meet a contact, he sent several people out in the field. He would hide on the floor of a vehicle, and scoot out the door at an opportune time. Sometimes, one of the team would leave a vehicle in a parking lot. Vassily would sometimes don a wig, and maybe a mustache, glasses. His counter surveillance list was endless. After his team diverted the Americans from the area, Vassily always drove away unnoticed. It took a lot of practice, but he and his team had made an exact science of this maneuver. U.S. Counter Intelligence would field 30 to 40 agents to surveil Vassily and his team. But, seven to eight out of ten times, Vassily's team managed to elude the Americans.

Frequently, after servicing a letter drop, he would drive to another parking garage, change his disguise, and shop the local stores. He would purchase something from a store, and the Americans would think he was just shopping. He had a habit of detecting surveillance in a heartbeat. Vassily was supremely confident in his ability to win the counter surveillance game of fox and rabbit.

D.C. Counter Intelligence (CI) had followed Vassily for years, and knew him well. They considered him a typical KGB low life or 'grudge'. Vassily was 42 years old, of average height, with dark brown, almost black, hair. He was a graduate of Moscow University with a degree in Physics, and a Red Army veteran. Vassily usually wore a KGB issue dark blue or black suit. For some reason, KGB believed the cut and color of the suits made the agent invisible, when in actuality, the only thing they could have done to make their presence more obvious was to have had their suits made by Jack Taylor, Hollywood suitmaker for stars Frank Sinatra, Danny Thomas, and Jackie Gleason, among others.

Vassily had a fetish for American hamburgers, and often ate at the Corvette Diner or other 50s-style burger joints. He spoke English like a native. He was well connected with the Communist party. His father was a Red Army defender at Stalingrad. He was named after his father's wartime buddy, Vassily Zaitsev, a famous Stalingrad sniper. Over the years, Vassily Nolitsyn earned several medals as a staunch Party member. He held the Order of Lenin, one of the Soviet Union's highest meritorious awards; however, it was unclear for what reason he had earned the medal. When necessary, he could be socially polished and sophisticated, unusual traits for the KGB. Vassily was an experienced Soviet Agent with a 15-year intelligence career behind him. Given half a chance, he would steal your most guarded secrets.

Little did KGB officials know that the materialistic poison of the West was slowly, but surely corrupting Vassily. If they had understood his state of mind, then his 'counter-revolutionary activity' – eating burgers plus a passion for anything American - would have earned him an instant and one-way trip to the Siberian Gulag.

****

### Back in the Good Ol' USSR

It was getting close to Christmas, and Vassily longed to see his family. He would have to wait until January to take leave and to visit with his wife, Svetlana, and their children. During this leave, he would be allowed to bring certain items to Moscow as gifts. He truly wished he could bring his wife and children to his duty station in D.C., but keeping the family separated is one way the Soviets insured loyalty from KGB officers. Family members were held hostage until the tour of duty ended. Agents who loved their family members kept clean, and returned to the U.S.S.R when duty ended. There was no chance of double-agenting if the KGB officer loved his or her family. It was an unstated rule that the families of KGB officers who strayed were disappeared and then destroyed.

In early January, Vassily left for Moscow, his bags packed with American-made goods: perfume, scented soaps, and a negligee purchased at Bloomingdale's, things women love to have and men want no part of, except, of course, the negligee.

Airport customs never questioned a KGB Officer.

Vassily carried gifts from Toys R Us for his children. He had been told that this toy company was a capitalistic monster, but his children wanted toys. He brought his son a Nintendo game. And, for his daughter, a Barbie doll with three different outfits.

As he walked out of Sheremetyevo airport, and into air crisp with Soviet glory, he thought of the America and the western lifestyle that were at his doorstep everyday in D.C.; and he knew that the brutality of Communism was not the future for him, his family, or the world. He recognized Communism could never survive consumerism, the demand for goods – the gods of the consumer – that only a free country could provide, because only a free country was capable of fostering an environment of fertility for innovation and discovery. People who weren't allowed their dreams couldn't create – communism, at least in Vassily's mind – destroyed people's ability to dream. He had learned to dream the American Way, and he wasn't likely to relinquish the newfound grain of hope taking root in his soul – there might be a way out.

He spent the next two weeks in a dreary and colorless Moscow. A long 12 months apart from one another, and a trying time for all of them, had separated Vassily and his family. Svetlana looked tired, and somewhat gaunt. Their apartment on Ivestia Platz was barely furnished to suit the family needs. It was an above standard dwelling in comparison with others in Moscow, but it was also a Soviet issued flat for KGB families. The carpet was worn out, the wallpaper fading and torn. The plumbing worked. Sometimes. The odor of cheap cleaners was permanently in the air. It was a far cry from his apartment in Washington, USA, where he was comfortable. The grain in his soul grew tentacles of roots. During travel in Moscow with his family, only occasional conversation was uttered. Russians are masters at this talk, their lips barely move. In Vassily's soul, memories of the American Way of Life warmed his thoughts all the while Svetlana's mutterings berated him about changes in the Soviet Union. He knew things were not good. He could see it, smell it, feel it. Fear was everywhere – even the children sensed it.

"Vassily, I'm afraid. Every day I see foreign news reports about the conditions here. Is Communism dead? Will we have a home and food on the table? Is this Boris Yeltsin a traitor or just another drunken bureaucrat?"

She had never made comments like this before, this the daughter of a high-ranking KGB official. Vassily interpreted this sort of talk as a strong hint to get the family out of the Soviet Union.

"Svetlana, as the wife of a KGB officer, you must keep up a front with your sweet face. Keep your opinions to yourself, and do not to repeat them to anyone. I must continue my work in Washington," he said to her, while continuing the conversation in his mind: _Since my last visit, I see a radically different Soviet Union. There were many dramatic changes, and a country on the edge of possible collapse. One must still stand in line for soap. In America, they almost give it away._

He recalled a Russian proverb, "When in confusion or in doubt, run in circles yell and shout," as being par for the course, particularly in Moscow, particularly now. A tiny grain of hope reached its strong roots into Vassily's heart – _There has to be a way to get my family out of this mess._

****

### Back in the Good Ol' USA

On January 27th, Vassily returned to Washington via Aeroflot. This is the airline where sometimes pigs and chickens are passengers. Not this trip. Vassily easily proceeded through U.S. Customs, and was greeted by fellow KGB agents from the Embassy. He handed over a small diplomatic pouch and was driven to his one bedroom apartment in the Soviet Residential Compound. It was a long and tiring flight. He thought, _Tomorrow will be a tough day._

He was correct. Lieutenant Colonel Rostov had interviewed several walk-ins at the embassy. Walk-ins were officially known as Casual Intelligence Informants. During Vassily's absence, a few of these informants were well lubricated with holiday cheer, and believed they had something to sell. Most of these so-called informants wanted money, and lots of it. It was odd how people with information to sell were so dedicated in their passion, which was motivated by money, revenge, and/or politics.

Viktor's first caller was a man with graying hair and a pronounced limp. Sitting at a small table, the man's hands shook. His wild eyes danced nervously around the room.

"I want to trade information for money," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I was a twenty-five year postal worker in the Pentagon. I got to know a lot about how things work. I handled all the mail . . . the way it flowed, who it was addressed to, their titles, senders' names. Sometimes mail was from the White House. It's a story in real time. You interested?"

Viktor studied the man, and asked the occasional question, while he wrote down notes from his story. When the exchange was completed, Viktor removed an envelope with two hundred dollars from his desk and handed it to the informant.

An appropriate amount of money in exchange for information translates into respect and confidence between handler and agent. In effect, when Viktor handed this postal worker an envelope, he was, without words, telling him, "You're hired." After contact information was appropriately exchanged, Viktor said, "We'll be in touch." The retired postal worker was escorted through a back door, and onto the street.

The next informant was even more promising. Stony Brooke (probably an alias) worked as a clerk in the Office of Security at the State Department. He was twenty-something years old, and was paid almost minimum wage for his 40-hours of weekly labor, in the same position for five years, and was just a little angry over low pay without much chance of promotion.

Mr. Brooke handed over a document purported to be a restricted access position paper about Egypt. The Deputy Secretary for North Africa, William Murphy, authored the paper. Viktor gave him $200 and advised him that they would contact him. If he wasn't an American plant, he could be a valuable asset. The document could have value, and will be sent to Moscow to verify authenticity and worth. With several other papers authored by the same author to compare this one with, Viktor's interest was piqued because William Murphy was an important policy maker in the State Department.

The third walk-in was a middle aged Latino from the U.S. Department of Labor. She did not want money.

"My name is Carla Gonzalez," she said, and then proudly stated, "I am a Communist, I want to work for the Socialist cause. I am sick of discrimination by white people."

Viktor sighed, and said, "Very well, write a paper on your personal history, how and why you converted to communism, and include your contact information. Understand?"

"Yes, Comrade, I understand."

"We will contact you in a month."

The woman was escorted to the back door.

The last walk-in was a drunk. He rang the bell, and when the guard brought him in, he fell into the chair.

In a low voice, Viktor said "Wonderful, another one. This guy must have the keys to the kingdom."

"Hi, My name is George. I have photos of classified equipment to sell. Here they are. Interested?"

"Maybe. Let me see."

Viktor looked at the photos, and saw that they were early bombsight equipment, 1970 vintage.

"Good. Leave your phone number, and we'll be in touch," Viktor replied, while thinking: _Don't call us; we'll call you._

Per standard procedure, the old and greasy photos will be sent to Moscow, despite their worthlessness.

Upon Vassily's return, he reviewed the walk-in reports. Later, he would make a decision whether or not to pursue a working relationship with any of the contacts. He edited Lieutenant Colonel Rostov's reports, and shipped the paperwork to Moscow. In Vassily's estimate, only two of the walk-ins were of passing interest, Carla Gonzalez and Stony Brooke. Vassily knew that KGB had the Office of Security covered. They had several sources there.

Vassily also had a number of dead drops to catch up on. Two were in the Virginia countryside. One was in suburban D.C., and the last in Georgetown, near the American capital district, so close as to be part and parcel of all things D.C. All the drops were routine. Vassily and his counter surveillance team quickly unloaded the drops with ease. This pleased Vassily. He was a busy man.

Honed by fifteen years with KGB European operations, he had become a hard and cold man. He was a practiced professional and very security conscious. Western Counter Intelligence agencies never penetrated any of Vassily's operations. However, Mr. Hard and Cold had to be honest with himself. He had been in the U.S. for over two years. He knew the hardships in the Soviet Union and the good life in the United States.

Nevertheless, the issue with Svetlana and the political situation in Moscow gave Vassily grave reason to think long and hard about their future. That night, he thought about his wife. One thing stuck in his mind. Svetlana said she waited in line for four hours to buy eight rolls of toilet paper. After a week of pondering their future, the rooted grain of hope in his soul grew a stem and sent tendrils toward the sun. Vassily came to the conclusion that their life had to change.

Little did Vassily understand how that decision would affect his family, and his country.

****

### Crossing the Rubicon

After much examination of conscience, Vassily decided his family didn't deserve the cramped and noisy apartment they lived in. There was no hope that things would get better. In fact, things were getting worse. Vassily must make his move, and soon. He was a decisive man, one who seldom changed his mind once his course was determined. He made a decision to defect, and felt as though a blossom opened in his heart. His thinking had reached a point of no return, but would appropriate action follow? So much was at risk. His family – how could he get them out? A bit of rain fell in Major Vassily Nolitsyn's heart. Blood makes the grass grow, he thought. The risk would have to be taken. There would be no future at all for him or his until they were all free to dream. His children deserved a chance to dream, to hope, to seed their souls with freedom of choice. All or nothing, he thought, as he examined the upcoming drop schedule. He needed a few moments alone, and Vassily was a fox when it came to stolen moments.

On February 1st, he unloaded a solo drop in Maryland. He was positive neither his team nor American CI had followed him. Vassily thought that U.S. Counter Intelligence people should learn not to park all of their vehicles in an open parking lot behind their office. It was a little too obvious. From ice cream carts to dry cleaner rigs, the Russians had photographs of every vehicle used by American CI.

He had committed all of them to memory.

Later that afternoon, Vassily drove to a pay phone in suburban Baltimore. He dialed the FBI Baltimore Field Office.

"Good afternoon. I am Vassily Nolitsyn from the Soviet Embassy."

"Yes, what can we do for you?"

"I want to defect. How soon can we meet?"

A very sharp, and apparently young voice replied, "Two weeks from now, the 15th of February?"

"That's good. Can it be someplace in Dundalk? I have requirements there."

"Alright. There is a tavern called the Holabird Inn. 2:00PM?"

"Good, I can make that."

"Carry a newspaper in your left hand. Two men will be seated at a table. Ask them what is the best beer here. One will reply, 'Red Fox'."

The Special Agent hung up the phone and was quiet for a moment. He thought, _I hope I did this right._

Shaken by his boldness and the ease of his action, but then ultimately composed and at peace with his decision, Vassily returned to the embassy on schedule. The drop cache was turned over to Lieutenant Colonel Rostov. Vassily breathed a nervous sigh of relief – the rubicon had been crossed.

****

### Another Defector Already

Special Agent Joe O'Sullivan of the Baltimore Field Office took the call. He confirmed the caller's name, and rank against their list of Soviet Embassy personnel. Major Nolitsyn, KGB, was a high level operative, and wanted to talk. Nolitsyn's kind of talk was good for America and that made O'Sullivan smile.

Since the Soviet Union's downfall began, the FBI had been nearly overwhelmed by wanna-be defectors. The SAIC at the Baltimore office decided to pass on Vassily's offer, and gave his name the U.S. Army CI Field Office in Baltimore.

Special Agent Jim McClain and Special Agent George Williams of the U.S. Army Intelligence Command in D.C. were assigned the Vassily Nolitsyn situation. They organized a surveillance team and planned the upcoming meeting. Everyone would be ready on Thursday, February 15, at 2:00 p.m. A total of ten agents and four vehicles were assigned to the Holabird Inn and surrounding area.

On February 15, Vassily left the embassy at 10:00 a.m., his destination the 'U.S. Rubber' plant in Dundalk, Marlyland, a two-hour drive from D.C. Vassily's assignment was to obtain photos of the installation, a maker of rubber mats and tires, the facilities of which were used for targeting references for satellites. The plant had no real intelligence value. Fort Holabird, an army post, was within ten miles of U.S. Rubber, and housed the Counter Intelligence Records Facility (CRF), the largest library of intelligence documents in the free world.

Vassily informed Lieutenant Colonel Rostov that he would return around 5:00 p.m. This was a fairly humdrum task; security was not an issue, so Lieutenant Colonel Rostov decided against the need to send additional agents.

Vassily drove to Baltimore, located the plant in Dundalk, and quickly took the required photographs of the building, nearby surroundings, and the parking lot. The assignment was completed by 1:30. The drive to the tavern would take less than half an hour from his location. Vassily estimated he had 30 minutes for the meeting, but not a second longer. In order to be certain of the time, he carried a stopwatch.

He entered the Holabird Inn from the side street door, and saw two men sitting in the rear of the tavern. Carrying a newspaper in his left hand, Vassily walked toward the men.

"What's the best beer in this town?"

"Red Fox is my favorite," replied Jim.

Recognition signals made, Vassily started the stopwatch in his pocket and sat down. Jim ordered three beers from the waitress. When she left, Vassily leaned forward and quietly said, "I am a KGB official at the Soviet Embassy. Here is my card."

He handed Jim his embassy political attaché business card.

"Very well Mr. Nolitsyn, what can we do for you?"

Vassily answered in perfect English, "I have a wife, and two children in Moscow. I want them out of the Soviet Union, and I want to be a free man in the U.S."

_This man gets to the point quickly_ , Jim thought. "Why should we bring you and your family to the U.S.? What's your value to us?"

"I have much to offer. Many state secrets. Drop sites. Identities of American agents. More. Much more."

Vassily pulled out the stopwatch and put it on the table. He said, "We have 20 minutes. We must move along, I have to keep to a schedule."

The waitress returned with beer. The men drank quickly while exchanging bits of information.

Satisfied that the major was useful for Army Intel purposes, Jim set up the next phase of the defection. "We'll meet at Beaufort Park in Washington, 7:30 a.m. on Sunday, March 4th. Park on a side street off of Taylor. Walk toward the park, and if it is clear, we will approach and pick you up. Be prepared for a two-hour debriefing. If you have to contact us, remember this number and use a pay phone. If I were you, I would bring something of value."

The stopwatch beeped.

Vassily said, "I understand." Unsmiling, he stood up, turned, and quickly exited the tavern through the side door.

Jim, quite focused, watched him go: _This guy is cold, but apparently knows his business. Hopefully, he will deliver something useful. We'll see._

After the face-to-face meeting with the Americans, Vassily returned to the embassy. His head was splitting, but his thoughts were as focused as Jim's – _No turning back now._ _To start with, I will give them a few Soviet secrets. Not much. Something to whet the appetite. A Soviet agent, someone they may already know about. I'll remain in control...as long as possible. Maybe I'll give them photographs of the rubber plant...and the old dead-drop location in D.C. Perhaps I'll tell them the story about the blue laundry bag...my meeting with the laundry man. Diaper delivery – Ha! No – I will demand they get Svetlana and the children out of Moscow. If need be, I have many other secrets. Agents in Germany and France. Dozens of dead drop sites. Possibilities are infinite...._

Hope springs eternal, even in the Soviet beast.

****

### The Die was Cast

Jim McClain and his team returned to the Baltimore Field Office, and spent the next two days in meetings with senior CI staff. Those days were filled with long discussions about the Soviet. Was he a defector, or was this another KGB 'dangle' operation? Do the Soviets want to plant this operative into our defector program to feed information back to the KGB? Jim and his staff beat the possibilities to death. Vassily Nolitsyn had been a 15-year KGB operative, and was known as a dangerous agent. A story of Vassily in Europe about a suspected weak comrade in Poland that sent his good 'weak' friend to Siberia earned him the name, 'Mr. Hard and Cold'. It was a well-known story in the KGB that earned him an assignment to the US.

Jim wondered aloud, "Why is he going to change sides now?"

Another agent replied, "Too much time in the West? Too much freedom? Maybe. We'll talk to him as long as he produces. Command will be insistent about that."

Jim McClain, 32-years-old, had re-enlisted in the U.S. Army for the second time as a senior Staff Sergeant, an E-6 with an excellent reputation as a Counter Intelligence Agent. He had ferreted out a couple of wanna-be moles in the CI training program at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. A stereotype CI agent type, Jim was 6 feet tall and 200-plus pounds with steel blue eyes. 'Precision' was his middle name.

Preparations for the March 4th meeting were made. The Beaufort Park safe house was readied. Details of the meeting were discussed. A technical team prepared for a two-hour debrief with a list of twenty questions. Vassily was assigned the code name 'Anvil' – he was hard and cold.

On March 4th, at 6:15 a.m., Vassily checked out of the compound, and told the gate guard that he was off to a nearby pancake house, a breakfast habit with him. He ate quickly and barely made the park on time. He got out of his car, and walked to the park. From a distance the CI team spotted him. Jim McClain was notified that Vassily had not been followed since he left the Soviet residential compound. A car pulled up near Vassily at 7:15 a.m., and he recognized Jim as the driver. The rear door opened, Vassily quickly got in, and they drove off. Vassily was told to lie down on the floorboard. A coat was thrown over him, so he couldn't see where they were going. Jim drove a meandering route for 10 minutes. Once inside the garage, the door closed. Vassily was told to exit the car and then was escorted inside the house. This type of melodrama was typical.

They walked into a large dining room containing a table, chairs, bright overhead lights, and a video camera. Three men dressed in casual clothes completed the scene. No pretense here. The men will find out fast and if Vassily is seriously defecting.

Vassily's notion of being in control rapidly melted away as the window shades were drawn, and introductions – first names only – were made. A polygraph machine and operator were also in the room. Vassily was thoroughly searched, and among other items, a stopwatch was found. He was told he must take a polygraph today. This was expected, and after the requisite and mild objection, he agreed to the test. He was offered a seat.

The polygraph technician strapped sensors to Vassily's chest, arm and hand, and said, "I am going to ask a few questions to get a level. Then I will ask some other questions to determine if you are telling the truth."

Vassily nodded in acknowledgment.

"Is your name Vassily Nolitsyn?"

"Yes."

"Do you work at the Soviet embassy?"

"Yes."

"Were you sent here by the KGB?"

"No."

"Are you here by your own free will?"

"Yes."

"Is your rank Major?"

"Yes, Senior Major," he added.

After checking the strip, the polygraph operator said, "I believe we can proceed with the other questions."

Jim nodded in agreement.

"Is Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Rostov your KGB superior?"

"Yes."

The needle was rock solid.

"Is your wife's name Svetlana?"

Vassily was shocked that they would know, but he still replied, "Yes," and thought, _The Americans have done their homework._

The questioning continued as the operator asked probing questions about KGB personalities and family. They spoke in both English and Russian. After it was over, the sensors were removed from Vassily's chest and he was given a glass of water. Years ago, Vassily had taken "How to Beat an American Polygraph Test," a course at the Moscow KGB training center that included a class about how to control one's emotional state during a polygraph.

Jim and the debriefers wanted to know the names of family, friends, and associates. Most important, what were the names of the KGB hierarchy in Moscow? Vassily knew that these were standard questions for any defector. It didn't shake him.

Vassily laid his stopwatch on the table.

"Very well. 45 minutes are left. I need to return to the compound by 9:00 a.m."

Jim nodded in agreement.

"Vassily, you were told to provide the identity of a Soviet agent. We are going to get that now."

Vassily took a deep breath.

"I was the contact for a Soviet agent at the German Defense Ministry in Bonn. She was the personal secretary of the Deputy Defense Minister for Policy."

"What was her name?"

"Greta. Her name was Greta Hojlsberg, Code name Scarlet."

"What was the Defense Minister's name?"

"Dieter Amundson, I believe."

"What did she provide?"

"She gave us the Order of Battle for the defense of Western Europe. In case of a Soviet attack, we had their defense strategy in front of us."

"What happened to her?"

"Nothing. She could be still active."

"Did you recruit her?"

"No, one of our GRU people took her to bed, and after a month, had her cold. Romance and the GRU are hand in glove. When I was her handler, she knew by then that she had made a big mistake, and realized she was being blackmailed. There was no way out. When I left Germany, she was virtually useless, a total alcoholic."

Vassily's matter of fact tone was unnerving. It brought out the ruthlessness of a social system that placed no value on human life – and of a man with a similar approach.

It took a couple of minutes for Jim to recover from Vassily's speech. However, for Vassily, it was just another KGB story. Time was moving along, almost 8:30, and they still had to get him back to his car.

"Okay, You were told to bring something else of value."

Sighing, Vassily said, "There is a dead drop in Arlington on North Pershing Street. Drive into the Columbia Gardens Cemetery and about 100 feet west is a statue with a kneeling angel. Drop location is immediately below the angel's right side. The drop itself is a black cylinder buried just beneath the brass grave marker. The load signal is a bouquet of flowers in a metal vase that's placed by the grave. Remove the bouquet to signify the drop has been unloaded."

Vassily could not provide the name of the agent who had loaded the drop because he had never seen him. He handed Jim the copies of the photographs of the U.S. Rubber plant.

After scanning the photos, Jim's face grew stern, and his response was terse. "You are mixing salt with sugar, Vassily. These pictures are virtually useless. We don't want unclassified information. If you want your family out, don't do this again."

"Okay, okay. I understand."

"We need genuine secret information from you. What else do you have?"

Vassily then recited the story of the blue laundry bag handoff. He was assigned this task because Lieutenant Colonel Rostov had the Asian flu. At that time, Vassily was the only one trusted to do the job. He was provided with an empty blue laundry bag, about 12" X 20" in size, to place on his vehicle's side window jamb. In a parking garage, Vassily stated that a white man, somewhat startled at a different face, tossed a blue laundry bag through the front passenger window. In exchange, the man grabbed the empty bag from the doorjamb. The handoff was so quick, a blink in time, as though the transfer had never happened. Vassily described the man: six feet tall, 180 – 200 pounds, Caucasian, dressed in a dark blue delivery uniform. An emblem was visible on the jacket breast pocket. It had wings or something similar. The man also wore a matching baseball cap. The blue laundry bag even smelled like dirty clothes. He never looked inside the bag, and delivered it to Lieutenant Colonel Rostov.

However, Vassily pointed out, "This exchange was a big deal, because I believe Rostov was the only man to do this. I haven't done it since, and I don't think I ever will again. This must be of great importance. Rostov must have handled all the work with this agent, because I never saw or heard anything about it. I have been in the KGB for fifteen years and know an important operation when I see it."

Jim said, "Okay, it was important, maybe."

Vassily retorted, "No 'maybe.' It was important."

This statement made a distinct impact on the team.

Vassily continued, "It was in the Lincoln Heights Mall in Chevy Chase. The underground parking lot."

Just then, the intrepid stop watch beeped.

Jim said, "Same time two weeks, March 18th." Vassily, all of this must check out, and not be a wild goose chase."

Vassily replied, "Okay, I understand. I have to go."

Jim returned Vassily to his car, and that was the end of the second meeting.

****

### Putting Things Together

Jim was mildly excited about the debriefing. He was also very serious when he told Vassily to provide facts, not fiction. CI Command wanted Vassily to be cognizant of the fact that the Americans were in control, and that he must produce.

The story about Scarlet was turned over to the German BFV. The information about the dead drop location was enough to keep CI busy for now. A video camera would be installed at the cemetery. The technical people were dissecting the rubber plant photos, but nothing suspicious there. This could be a dodge. The laundry story was almost too far fetched, except that Vassily had said that it was very important.

CI command had more important issues to deal with. They had their hands full keeping track of East Bloc embassy personnel. D.C. Counter Intelligence agencies suspected every diplomat and every embassy employee of spying.

Most were.

****

### Maybe; Then Again, Maybe Not

The phone rang, and Jim McClain, U.S. Army Special Agent, answered.

"Agent McClain, Celia Brown, FBI Rockville. I have some info you might be interested in."

"Go ahead, I can use it."

"Your report about the blue laundry bag and the description of the guy who threw it in the window rang a bell. The blue uniform had an emblem supposedly from an air cargo service. This morning I talked with an informant from a diaper service. It's on another case. She wore a blue uniform with an emblem on the pocket. The emblem had wings, Mr. McClain."

Silence followed as the pieces to an unsolved puzzle spun in Jim's mind.

"Agent McClain, are you there?"

Jim said softly, "Okay, thanks. Do me a favor. Send me the paperwork you have, and I'll check it out."

"No problem, I'll take care of it right away."

Jim thought, _Is this something big? Or, are we chasing rainbows? Vassily's blue laundry bag story makes more sense now. Not much, but a little. We'll see._

McClain pursued the lead, and discovered that the diaper service bought their uniforms from ABoy Uniform Service in Washington. Along with several other similar jackets, he purchased a Perfect Baby Diaper Service jacket. It was dark blue and bore the appropriate emblem on the pocket. This was March 15th, three days before the next meeting with 'Anvil'.

****

### Go West, Young Man, Go West

For Charlie Waters, it was time for his semiannual trip to the West Coast. In early March, Perfect Baby Diaper Service had approved his vacation request. A temporary employee filled in. Charlie packed his pickup and camper, and strapped his lawn chair to the back of the camper. He would leave on Saturday, March 10th, 1990. He was due back on the 26th of March.

Charlie contemplated his trip: _I've done this for 20 years, and I've got it down pat. I'll drive straight through to the west coast, stopping only at gas stations and rest stops. I'll sleep in the camper, and cook my own food. This time I'll take the northern route across the Dakotas, and Utah. It always seems to work to double back at least a couple of times. Call it peace of mind. Again, I will leave the truck parked in a secluded spot for a day, walk to a car rental agency in Bozeman, and pay cash for a rental car. As before, and from a distance, I'll watch the pickup with binoculars. If anyone is tailing me, I'll know._

Charlie "BlueDog" Waters' plan was perfect. Well, almost.

When Charlie stopped at a 7-11 to fill the propane tank that fueled his cook stove, and while he was inside paying the $8.50 for the propane, a long-range transponder was installed on the camper in less than two minutes.

The Rockville SAIC installed the transponder on Charlie's pickup. Since the device was placed outside the vehicle, a court order was not required. The case of Charlie Waters was reopened by special request of the NSA. The FBI, initially uninterested in Vassily's request to defect, recognized the potential for a huge bust. The NSA and FBI agreed to pursue the diaper man in a joint investigation. In turn, the Albuquerque FBI Field Office requested the Rockville, Maryland Field Office to keep an eye on him and his movements.

No one in Army or FBI CI realized at the time just how big the bust, or the spy ring, might be.

****

### Standing by to Standby

Leaving his pickup vacant for a day in Bozeman alerted the National Security Agency to an alteration in Charlie Waters' expected trajectory. NSA contacted the FBI, and they in turn called the field offices in Rockville. The agents advised all parties to leave the truck alone. In their estimate, he would return within a day. Waiting him out was a wise decision that paid off. Charlie returned the next day and continued west.

Satisfied no one was following him, Charlie continued toward the Golden State, turning onto I-5 at Redding, heading south to San Diego.

I won't take any chances.

Starting from Laurel, MD, it took him a little over five days to reach San Diego, California. He pushed the speed limit a little. His citizens band radio provided the trucker chatter that told him how fast he could go.

To the FBI and NSA it was beginning to look like Charlie Waters liked to drive to California twice a year just for the fun of it. It was noted that Charlie did not go anywhere near Albuquerque, in fact, he stayed at least 500 miles away. For the moment, that confused and frustrated the team. They expected him to make a beeline for Albuquerque. He didn't.

On his arrival in San Diego, Charlie drove to a trailer park near the outskirts of El Cajon. He settled in for a couple of days, and got some badly needed rest. He had time to reflect on the past, and the future. He recalled his first meeting with Ivan in San Francisco. Charlie often wondered what his real name was.

Do I have any regrets? No, I don't suppose I do. It's been over 20 years now. So long I barely remember how it all began.

But Charlie Waters did remember. Almost perfectly.

It was 1968, and like everybody else, Charlie Waters was fed up with the Vietnam War. He believed the War was a monumental mistake, and no one was going to do anything about it, especially Lyndon Baines Johnson. Charlie Waters didn't know much about politics or how the whole damned thing got started. He knew only the lessons of experience. The Tet Offensive taught the government nothing. The carnage was still continuing. Many of Charlie's friends thought the same way – the War was wrong. Demonstrations were happening every day in San Francisco. Charlie's younger brother, Carl, was reported MIA in Vietnam, and Charlie's boyhood friend Joe Burns, was killed in Saigon during TET. Carl's body was never recovered. That enraged Charlie. It was a life-changing event

In late November of 1968, Charlie was drowning his sorrows in a San Francisco pub. Charlie had a penchant for Irish pubs and Irish whiskey. A Special Forces Sergeant was at the end of the bar. After Charlie's fourth whiskey and coke, his war related comments quickly escalated into a fight with the sergeant. It was no contest. Charlie was beaten into a semi-conscious state of pulp, and stumbled into a back alley. Discovered by a garbage man three days later, Charlie was hospitalized for over two months. 20-year-old Charlie lost fifteen of his 180 pounds. His 5-feet 11-inch frame shrunk an inch from the beating. The hospital shaved his long brown hair for treatment, and his aqua blue eyes lost much of their sparkle, and now became dull gray. With facial scars from the fight, his youthful good looks were gone forever. The beating and its aftermath, along with months of bitter solitude in a charity ward, slowly turned Charlie's mind from liberal activist to merciless traitor to his country.

Upon discharge from the hospital, he sat in a coffee shop just down the block from the Soviet Consulate in San Francisco. He had been watching the consulate for over a week. He arrived in the morning and bought a coffee and newspaper. For many days he scrutinized the people who walked into the coffee shop from the Consulate.

On a Thursday morning around 10:00 a.m., a dark haired man in his 30s walked to the coffee shop from the consulate. The man purchased a _San Francisco Examiner_ from an outdoor vending machine. Inside, he ordered a coffee and a doughnut. Obviously a repeat customer, the clerk seemed to know him. Oddly, only minutes after the man left, the clerk made a phone call. The man always purchased a newspaper, coffee and a doughnut on Tuesday and Thursday.

On the next Thursday, Charlie purchased a _San Francisco Examiner_ from the vending machine. He slipped an envelope into the top copy. Charlie walked to the corner, and watched the shop. As usual, the man arrived, purchased the newspaper, and went inside. Contact made.

Charlie's message was specific: _I will help the socialist cause. I will be at the Anchor Bar on Front Street near the docks at 10:00 a.m. this Saturday. I will be wearing a San Francisco 49ers baseball cap._

Saturday morning, Charlie waited in the Anchor Bar near the waterfront. It was empty except for the bartender. He hoped his contact was not a chauffeur.

A little after 10:00 a.m., the dark haired man from the Consulate arrived. Charlie looked up from the table, and raised his hand slightly as if to say hello. The Soviet looked around. Seeing no one else around, he approached the table and sat down.

Charlie said, "I was the one who left the envelope in the newspaper."

The man asked, "What's your name?"

"Charlie. What's your name?"

"Ivan."

"I am eager to advance the cause of socialism."

"Slow down Charlie. What can you do for us?"

"I will do whatever you want."

"Write down a phone number and address where you can be reached."

Without hesitation, Charlie gave him a card. Ivan took the card, looked at the scribble, and nodded his head.

Ivan said, "Wait ten minutes and then leave."

"Okay."

The meeting took less than five minutes. This brief encounter began a long relationship with the KGB. It sealed Charlie's fate as a zealous Soviet agent and ruthless turncoat. That was twenty years ago.

****

### On the Road Again

The next evening, BlueDog drives east into the desert. A familiar and lonely dirt road awaits him. After twelve years, he knows the area by heart. It is a clear quiet night except for the howl of the coyotes. They keep BlueDog company as he sets up his transceiver. Using a new of piece of equipment supplied by Ivan, BlueDog reports his safe arrival to Moscow. Only five seconds is needed for the actual transmission. It takes longer to set up and tear down than to actually use it. BlueDog places the transceiver under the front seat, in the box he built especially for his semi-annual trek, a box that snapped into place out of sight.

NSA reports to the FBI that a transmission on a frequency used by the Soviets had occurred earlier that evening. The location was pinpointed east of El Cajon. It was too short, less than two seconds, to be a data message. It was a "safe arrival" or a "departure" message.

The FBI was aware that a growing number of illegal transmissions were originating from the Southern California desert, probably due to the new B2 bomber project at Palmdale, and probably as a result of Soviet recruitment practices at the plant.

The FBI did not yet know BlueDog, but they did know Charlie Waters was in that desert.

****

### Well Now....

Vassily repeated his routine with the Americans. He parked near Beaufort Park on a different street, and again Jim picked him up. Vassily knew that he must give them something more substantial. After so many years with the KGB, he had the ability to map out situations very quickly.

Jim asked, "Vassily, what have you brought us today?"

Vassily brusquely replied, "How are you going to get my wife and kids out of the Soviet Union?"

"We are looking into that as we speak. However, you must continue to produce. We asked you for your cooperation. We need more information from you now."

Almost at once, Vassily knew that his bargaining position was rapidly losing influence.

Vassily said, "I understand. But I want some particulars on when you are going to get my family out. The situation in the Soviet Union is getting worse by the day. Time is short."

Jim agreeably said, "Very well. I understand, Vassily. We'd like you to look at some uniforms.

"OK, let's get with it."

Vassily walked to the rack of uniform jackets, and examined each one. When he saw the diaper service jacket, he recognized it as the uniform his contact had been wearing. He remembered it because it had something that looked like wings on the right breast pocket. He passed it by, and finished looking at the rest of the jackets.

"Do you recognize any of the jackets?"

"Possibly, what do I get for this?"

"Answer the question please!"

"Okay, okay. It's this one. See the wings on the front. I am sure this is it."

"Are you positive?"

Sighing heavily, he said, "Yes, Jim, I remember the color and the emblem. The man that I saw was in his early 40s, and he wore a matching blue baseball hat. He also had scars on his face.

"Go on."

"He looked surprised to see me sitting in the car, and almost didn't put the bag through the window. It stopped him dead in his tracks for two or three seconds. But I held up an index card with a large number '4' printed on it. Apparently he was satisfied with that, and he threw the bag through the window, grabbed the other one, and walked away.

"Okay. Anything else?"

"No. That's it. It was so quick and smooth. Like it hadn't happened." Vassily added, "I'll give you the location of two dead drops. One in Virginia and one in Georgetown."

Jim eyed him, while considering that the Georgetown location would raise some eyebrows because most of the government upper crust lived there. McClain decided not to show Charlie's photograph to Vassily. CI Command was still suspicious that this could be some kind of dangle or ruse to gain information with Vassily in the role of double agent.

Keeping his eyes locked on McClain's, Vassily spoke again, clearly and without fear. "If you arrest the people who are loading the drops, suspicion will immediately fall on me. I will be recalled to Moscow, at the very least."

"We know that. We are taking precautions," Jim responded politely.

Too politely. Vassily understood McClain's tone – he'd been in Jim's place many times. The comment was a slap in Vassily's face that forced him to realize, at that moment, _I am the pawn now_ , _a commodity to be traded or sold_. Vassily, a no nonsense operative, knew he had to produce or else.

" _Beep, beep, beep."_ The stopwatch interrupted the two agents' mental power play.

"OK, Vassily, we'll take you back. See you next time."

But Vassily wasn't finished bargaining for leverage. "I want some assurance about my family, or I will not continue. This is it. I'm done."

Silence.

Jim replied, "I understand Vassily. We haven't broken our word yet. Have we?"

The meeting was over.

Vassily, well aware of the five drops along with some agent identities in Europe still in his power to trade for the rescue of his family, was returned to his car.

Information was indeed a valuable commodity, and bartering was still the law of the land, at least for the intelligence community on both sides of the Cold War wall.

****

### Boom

Sitting in his Albuquerque office, Brett held the phone to his ear and listened to Jim's report of the information gathered from the meeting with Vassily. It hit Brett like a bombshell. He leaned back into his leather chair.

"So," Jim added stoically, "it appears that Charlie Waters does have a connection with Soviet Intelligence. Factually, though, we have very little."

In his mind, Brett tried to put the pieces together. "Was this Charlie Waters some kind of bag man? A go-between?"

"Could be...maybe a courier, or a radio agent. Only time will tell."

Brett added, "OK Jim, thanks. We'll talk later."

As Brett hung up the phone, he knew that the noose around Charlie Waters' neck was tightening day-by-day. Charlie had to be a small player in a larger game. He didn't have the access to be a primary source.

The FBI and Army CI in San Diego were alerted to the new developments uncovered by the East Coast teams. San Diego CI had been watching Charlie's pickup truck in the trailer park, where he seemed to be waiting for something. FBI Washington now had a policy decision to make. What should they do, and when? The San Diego field office was in contact with Brett Culpepper and Washington FBI almost hourly. Legally, they had no case.

FBI Washington decided to wait until Charlie committed a federal crime, hopefully a violation of the Federal Espionage Act. If Charlie Waters was a spy, Washington would want him nailed quickly. Experience told Brett Culpepper that patience would be rewarded – Southern California was home to the world's largest military industrial complex.

_Nothing other than a story about a blue laundry bag_ , Brett thought, while tapping a pencil against his forehead and releasing a small, uncomfortable laugh.

Indeed, at the very moment Agent Culpepper was considering the ironies of a blue laundry bag and international espionage, BlueDog was awaiting the go-ahead to begin his route. His small transceiver would send a go signal when it was time to unload the San Diego drop. It was March 18th, and he must start his return trip soon, very soon. He sent the arrival signal, and had been at the trailer park wasting away four days while anxiously waiting for the signal from Moscow.

BlueDog was growing impatient – _C'mon Moscow, let's get with it. I gotta get back to Maryland._

****

### Let the Games Begin

At 6:00 a.m. the next day, it is still dark, and BlueDog is in his camper. He plugs one end of a small power cable into his camper power source, the other into the transceiver, and turns the transmit/receive switch to the receive position. Then he flips the power switch on, and waits for the three beeps that will signal permission to proceed.

At 6:08 a.m., Moscow sends three beeps.

BlueDog replies compliance with order by returning four beeps.

"Thank you, it's about time," he says. Relief floods his scarred face as a whistle escapes his pursed lips.

He turns off the transceiver, and replaces it under the camper sink. He starts his truck, and drives out of the trailer park.

Following a circuitous route, BlueDog drives to Balboa Park, just minutes from downtown San Diego. He carefully scans the area for surveillance activity. He has been doing this for over 20 years, and knows what to look for. He sees nothing suspicious.

It is early and quiet.

Upon arrival in Balboa Park, he parks the truck in an empty lot near the Museum of Man, and spots the chalk mark on a No Parking sign. He found this drop location about three years ago; it was as perfect as a drop could be, secluded but accessible 24 hours a day. He checks the truck mirrors, and finally, after three minutes, steps out of the truck. Scanning his surroundings, he decides to proceed. BlueDog walks to the No Parking sign, and around a nearby building to a large Eucalyptus tree. At the base of the tree is a small hole covered by a large rock and some leaves. With a little effort, he moves the rock and, lo and behold, instead of the usual rectangular metal box he finds a piece of black plastic pipe. BlueDog is alarmed. What to do? Reason prevails. He slowly unscrews the lid, and pulls out a curled up manila envelope with a note attached: _Had to use a bigger receptacle. Too much stuff; it wouldn't fit in the box._

BlueDog removes the envelope from the pipe, and screws the lid back on. He replaces the rock. With a nearby tree branch, he dresses the site so that it looks undisturbed. Hurriedly, he stuffs the envelope down his pants and beneath his shirt. He walks around the building, and wipes the chalk mark from the sign.

BlueDog then returns to his truck, places the bulky envelope in the glove compartment, and quickly drives away.

Later, he will secret the materials in the camper. But, he must get away from this place now. He reminds himself to advise Moscow about the pipe. Before his next trip, they must warn him of changes in any drop site. He doesn't like surprises.

The FBI and Army CI surveillance teams followed Charlie when he left the trailer park that morning. One local agent arrived at the same time as Charlie. He managed to videotape Charlie just as he got out of his truck and walked behind the Museum of Man. He reappeared about two minutes later, returned to his truck, and quickly drove away. Before leaving, Charlie was noticed to have been wiping something from a No Parking sign.

Charlie was now suspected of either meeting someone, or retrieving something from a dead drop. Whatever he had, it was obvious he would pass it on to higher authority. When he would do that was the question in everyone's minds – including Charlie's.

Charlie entered Interstate 163 northbound, then onto I15 north.

Immediately after the incident in Balboa Park, local San Diego FBI agents searched the area behind the building, and found a likely location. A large rock at the base of a Eucalyptus tree was a dead give away. The ground appeared to have been recently disturbed. The agents were very careful – the Russians were known to booby trap their sites. Upon closer examination, they discovered the empty black plastic pipe. In D.C., grave concern arose that Charlie Waters had obtained something of a highly classified nature. San Diego was a well-known area for the transfer, infiltration, and exfiltration of spies and couriers. Located near the Mexican border, with a large metropolitan area and a multinational population, both freeway and air access were quick and easy, and the airport was within easy access downtown.

The short time Waters spent behind the building indicated that this incident was probably not a face-to-face meeting. Washington command center was alerted, and they demanded that Charlie be detained as soon as possible. Whatever he had, they wanted it back in American hands.

The team in San Diego believed Waters had evidence on his person or in his truck for an espionage conviction.

****

### Is BlueDog Finished?

Charlie Waters was now identified as the man who passed the blue laundry bag to a Soviet contact in Maryland. Not one or two items, but possibly a full bag of secrets. Based on his movements in San Diego, CI had Charlie marked as an experienced and dangerous operative. Obviously, he had been at this for a long time. He was considered a direct threat to the National Security of the United States.

A hastily arranged teleconference between U.S. Army CI, the San Diego FBI Field Office, and other participating agencies was held, and the situation thoroughly discussed. The head of FBI Counter Intelligence in Washington, David Hopkins, presided at the meeting that Monday afternoon. Based on the parking lot incident in Maryland, his obvious behavior as a courier, and his recent activity at Balboa Park, the decision was made to detain Charlie. But San Diego FBI objected. They suggested that he should be given a long leash.

San Diego's SAIC John Withers talked to David Hopkins, FBI Counter Intelligence Chief in Washington.

"Mr. Hopkins, we know who he is, and his movements minute by minute. We have him under discreet, but close surveillance. We can nab him at anytime."

"John, we believe that Waters may have highly sensitive information about the B2 bomber program in Palmdale. An engineer, under surveillance and suspicion for the past two months, did not report for work this morning. We don't know where he is at this point. A distinct possibility exists that he's the person who loaded the drop in Balboa Park. My people here are very nervous at the prospect of the engineering details of that project getting into the hands of the Soviets. Waters is obviously an experienced field operative and may slip from surveillance. The Director wants the information he has back in U.S. hands – now."

"Very well, sir."

"We want you to get him into a position where he can not escape, and arrest him. And, John, at all costs, we want him taken alive."

"Yes, sir. Very well, sir."

The meeting ended with a mad rush of agents to Escondido.

Charlie was feeling good as he passed Escondido on I-15. He popped an 8-track tape of Patsy Cline's best hits into the player and focused on his thoughts.

Plenty of goods hidden away. Nice sunny day. TV traffic helicopters out. I'll be in New Mexico in a couple of days, service the drop there, then get back home. Another successful trip. I wonder how many more they want me to make? Maybe I should move on from the diaper service. That last drop in Chevy Chase was a little scary. Ought'a start my own business. Use that. Change is always good for the heart and the mind. I've got enough bucks stashed away to do it.

"All right Buddy – I see you. No need to lay on the horn."

Pay attention here. Same speed as everybody else. Those traffic choppers are still around. No need to end it all with an act of stupidity. Probably an accident or something near here. Anyway, there's still a lot of traffic. Lots of highway patrol out too. Take it easy. Be invisible. One of them has moved up. Not looking for me, that's for sure. What's he doing behind me? I haven't done anything.

"What the hell is this?"

Cop has his flashers on, and motioning me over?

"Why?"

I checked and rechecked the brake lights and my signal lights. No problem there. Be cool, move over, stop, roll down the window....

"Good afternoon, sir. May I see your license and registration?"

"Certainly officer. What's the problem?"

"Probably nothing. Report of a vehicle like yours in a hit and run. I'll be right back."

Meanwhile, a black sedan moved in behind the patrol car.

Charlie begins to wonder, _What's going on here?_

A man exited the black sedan and began talking with the highway patrolman. A long minute passed.

This is nothing. I need to be on my way, though. Albuquerque....

The man in the suit approached the truck.

"Good morning, sir. Could I have your name please?"

"Waters."

"First name please."

"Charles."

"Fine. Would you exit the truck for a moment?

Another man in a suit approached the truck.

"What's the problem?"

The two men were outside the door of the truck as Charlie got out.

"Mr. Waters, my name is Goodwin. I work for the U.S. Government."

"Good for you. What does the U.S. Government want?"

"We want you to turn around and place your hands on the truck."

"Why?"

"Because you are under arrest for suspicion of breaking a Federal Law."

As the other man handcuffed Charlie, Charlie retorted, "You must be nuts."

"We'll see Mr. Waters, we'll see."

They read Charlie his rights.

Charlie turned around to walk to the car, and saw cops and FBI Agents everywhere. All the blank spaces in the world had been filled in with cop uniforms, black suits and handguns.

At that moment, Charlie Waters knew it was over. He had been betrayed. By whom, and when?

Charlie divulged nothing to anyone. He said nothing while he was driven to the Federal Lockup facility on Union Street in downtown San Diego. Later, his truck was thoroughly searched. The transceiver and the large envelope of classified documents pulled from the vehicle were shown to Charlie in a jailhouse interview room.

"This document is Top Secret. What are you doing with it, Mr. Waters?"

Charlie, covered in cold sweat, took the Fifth Amendment, and with his Federal Public Defender present, Charlie Waters said nothing.

The documents recovered from the truck included Xerox copies of the latest engineering design for the Nighthawk stealth ground attack aircraft, and of specifications for the radar absorbent material coating for the B2 bomber. FBI Command in Washington had made the right decision.

The government had five days to bring Charles Waters before a Federal magistrate to charge him or let him go. They took all five days. The government wanted Charlie Waters to sit in his cell while visions of his future worked on him. Charlie knew they had him. What happened? How did they find him? He had been so careful.

On the fifth day after his arrest, Charlie was arraigned at San Diego Federal 15th Circuit Court. The U.S. Attorney presented the Judge with the illegal transceiver found in Charlie's truck, and the highly classified information in his possession at the time of his arrest. The U.S. Attorney refused to elaborate on the B2 information. He stated that the documents were "of a highly classified nature." A witness from Northup Grumman testified that they were copies of authentic documents. That was enough for the Judge. Charlie was remanded to Federal custody without bail. He refused a plea and was assigned a Federal Public Defender. From the Xerox copies, a few fingerprints were lifted. An arrest was then made in Palmdale.

Federal public defenders were lawyers hired by the Justice Department of the U.S. Government. They represent defendants charged by the U.S. Government, and who don't have an attorney of their own. They are a definite cut above the ordinary defense counsel. They have a large staff, and are well paid. They defend their clients to the best of their ability. Benjamin Secort was such an attorney. He was assigned to Charlie Waters, and had his first interview immediately after the arraignment. Mr. Secort told Charlie that he was probably facing 25 to 30 years in prison for a variety of charges. One of which was failing to register with the Federal Government as an agent of a foreign power. That violation alone carried a 10-year sentence. Charlie was unmoved.

"Mr. Waters, the government has enough evidence to convict. But if you cooperate, they might consider a reduction of sentence."

"I will not give up my Fifth Amendment rights."

"Mr. Waters, our conversations are private. You can speak freely with me. I think you should seriously consider the alternatives."

Charlie was adamant – _I will go to my grave before these bastards get anything._

Following Benjamin Secort's departure, Charlie continued thinking about his predicament.

So, what do they have? The drop contents. The transceiver. I'm resigned to prison for, maybe, 20 years. I'll be in my 60s when I get out. I don't care. My brother and my best friend are dead because of them. Now they have me. So be it.

Shortly thereafter, the U.S. Attorney formally filed additional violations of the Federal Espionage Act: failure to register as a foreign agent and wire fraud charges. It couldn't be a Federal case without wire fraud.

BlueDog was finished.

In Albuquerque, Brett Culpepper received the news about Charlie Waters. Scott's description, the identity of the pickup truck and camper – all the factors fell into place. Waters was the second man in the alley that previous October, but Brett wasn't too happy about the inopportune arrest. The FBI should have waited. The chance to nail a local spy might be gone forever. A question pushed from the recesses of Brett Culpepper's mind: Exactly where was the dead drop in that Old Town alley? Brett assumed it was a magnetized box left on the dumpster.

Just outside Santa Fe, New Mexico, a weapons designer at Los Alamos National Laboratory watched the TV newscast announcing the arrest of a suspected spy. John Parent relegated this San Diego incident to the back of his mind. This wouldn't affect his situation. Or would it?

And, in the red granite hallway outside Moscow, the boot steps of Major Zhukov once again reverberated. Once inside the cavernous office, he said, "Good morning, Miss Tushkov. I would appreciate seeing the General as soon as possible."

"One moment, I'll see if he is available. Please take a seat."

There were several other people in the office waiting to see the general, some very nervous, some not.

She returned shortly and said, "Very well Major, but don't take too long. There are other people here who have important business."

"Thank you." He hustled into the general's abode.

"Good morning, sir. I have some news that is important and can't wait."

"Very well Zhukov. What is it?"

"Sir, BlueDog has been arrested in San Diego, California."

The General's eyes almost popped out of his head. Calm, be calm.

After a few seconds, the General said, "What are the details Major?"

"He was on a highway in California heading north. He was stopped by a policeman just north of San Diego, and was arrested by the FBI."

"The FBI?"

"Yes, sir. The FBI. They evidently had knowledge of his activity in San Diego, and arrested him. He had the B2 specs with him."

"Were any of our people implicated with him?"

"Apparently not, he was by himself, and the news reports did not mention anyone else. He was not scheduled to meet anyone in San Diego. He was only there to service a drop."

"I see. Keep me informed."

"Yes, sir, an unfortunate blow. Sorry, sir."

"Yes, yes. Thank you Major."

The Major scurried out and made his way to the communications section.

"Miss Tushkov. Call the Director, KGB. Make an appointment as soon as possible, and cancel my appointments for the rest of the day."

"Yes, sir, immediately."

****

### A Parting of Friends

Viktor Rostov received the news with shock and disbelief – BlueDog simply didn't make mistakes. What happened? Was he betrayed? The TV newscast reported that a man was seen digging in the ground behind the Museum of Man. The park's maintenance man called the police.

It was a sad blow indeed. It was Viktor Rostov who recruited Charlie Waters in 1968. It was Viktor who was the Counselor Officer in the coffee shop that day in San Francisco. It was Viktor who trained Charlie, and Viktor who mentored and paid Charlie. Viktor and Charlie had been good friends for over 20 years. Now that's all gone. If Charlie cracks, and identifies Viktor as his contact, his usefulness in the U.S. is gone.

Viktor immediately asked Moscow for permission to contact their most secret agent in the United States. Moscow thought long and hard about this. It was imperative to find out if other operations or agents were endangered. A sealed note by diplomatic pouch reached Viktor two weeks later. Meanwhile, everything was shut down. No contacts, no dead drops, nothing. All agents and sources were advised by coded newspaper ads and shortwave radio to cease all activity on the eastern U.S. seaboard until further notice.

Two days later, Viktor drove to suburban Chevy Chase. He left his car parked on a side street near a vacant lot, and changed into a priest's suit. Beard and mustache completed the disguise. He took a bus back to downtown Washington, got off in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral, walked to the rectory, and rang the bell. The Monsignor, recognizing the visitor as a priest from Denver, welcomed him with a warm handshake.

"Monsignor, I was visiting family here, and was wondering if you needed help with confessions today."

"Thank you Father, I would appreciate that. I am running a little late," Monsignor O'Brian replied.

"I would be happy to fill in for a few hours. I am visiting my sister and her family."

Monsignor O'Brian gave Father Baker a cassock and stole, and pointed him toward the confessional.

Father Baker walked down the aisle to one of the confessionals, turned the light on, and closed the door. He had not long to wait. He heard confessions of a couple of teenage boys about their girl friends, and gave each of them good advice. Ten Hail Mary's and keep your pants zipped. Relieved to get off lightly, they left quickly. A short time later, the door opened and closed again. Father Baker dutifully opened the grilled closure.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned,"

"How long since your last confession?"

"It has been much too long, maybe a year."

"I see. How may I help a long time sinner?"

Sign and counter sign exchanged. A sheaf of typewritten pages was slipped under the grill to Father Baker. A whispered conversation followed.

"They have enough to convict Waters of espionage based on the contents of the drop retrieved in San Diego, and the illegal transmitter."

Father Baker replied, "Is this all?"

"Yes, the evidence is limited to the San Diego drop. If your man keeps quiet, the identity of other operatives and their activities should remain secure. The report will cover everything I know."

"Is that everything?"

"Yes Father, that's all."

"Thank you my child, I absolve you of your sins."

"Thank you Father."

Following the short absolution, the slender figure exited the confessional. A muffled click from her footsteps emanated from the stone walls. The cathedral side door opened, and then, silently closed. The ensuing stillness was deafening.

Father Baker mused to himself, a high-ranking Soviet agent actually anticipated what information was required, fulfilled the task, and was forgiven on the spot for betraying her country. We are blessed!

He heard several more confessions, and, when it was quiet, returned to the rectory.

"Thank you Father Baker, were you busy?"

"Not very"

"Thank you again Father."

"My pleasure."

The Monsignor left to go to lunch.

Father Baker deftly removed the stole and cassock. He placed them neatly on a rack, washed his face, combed his hair, and left.

He caught a bus and got off where his car was parked. During the trip, he deftly removed the mustache and beard. Now, he was a different man.

Returning to his office, Viktor nervously unfolded the papers, and read Apollo's three-page report. Afterward, he breathed a sigh of relief. For the time being, exposure was isolated to BlueDog.

****

### Apollo

After her "confession" at St. Patrick's, Apollo returned to work at the Executive Office Building (EOB) across the street from the White House. She was the Personal Assistant to the Deputy National Security Advisor for European Affairs (NSAEA), Gary Witherspoon. An admirer of Mr. Witherspoon's, she had been his assistant for over 15 years. They were the perfect team. She also spent much of her time at the White House. Two years ago, she was temporary staff secretary to the Deputy National Security Advisor (NSA) for six weeks.

Apollo was privy to some of the United States' most sensitive secrets. Her 'bring up' investigation was completed three years ago, and she passed with flying colors. She was never required to take a polygraph examination because as an administrative assistant she did not warrant such scrutiny. However, access to some of the most sensitive National Security information was always at her fingertips. She fashioned much of the intelligence paperwork for her boss, including the monthly Soviet Intelligence Estimate and the Soviet Military Readiness Summary. No doubt about it, Apollo had her hands on the policy direction of U.S. national security.

In 1984, she was convinced Socialism was the only way of life that would save mankind. Regardless of race, religion, or nationality, it was the wave of the future. Her understanding of the situation, developed from many years of experience in Washington, told her that a benevolent dictatorship, albeit Communism's dictatorship of the Proletariat, was the only way to solve rather than to perpetuate problems. By 1985, Apollo was forced to do whatever it took to bring the world to its senses, and to save the world from a nuclear holocaust. On one occasion, she had told her boss, "Gary, driving the Soviets into a diplomatic corner will never force them to their knees. It just deepens a hatred with long memory."

Witherspoon's reaction was silence. He quickly purged those words from his mind. The Soviets were an implacable enemy, and he would give them no quarter. She could easily see the hatred in his face.

Three years ago on a Thanksgiving weekend, she flew to Ottawa to visit her brother, Jim, and his wife, Catherine. It's bitter cold in Ottawa in November. That Sunday morning, she borrowed her brother's car, and told him she had a government issue to attend to. Jim knew about her job in Washington, and didn't think anything about her side trips. From her access to intelligence data, Apollo knew the KGB resident in Ottawa was Oleg Vankowsky.

Surveillance of Russians diplomats on a Sunday morning was a bit lax. Canadian Intelligence knew that Oleg occasionally had breakfast alone at a local pancake restaurant. It was part of the KGB game.

That day, as usual, Oleg showed up at the Rocky Mountain Pancake House.

Apollo arrived before Oleg, hung her fur coat on a rack, and took a table in the rear. Ten minutes later, Oleg walked in, hung up his overcoat, and took a seat at one of the tables near the front.

She soon finished her breakfast, and paid her check. She pulled her gloves on, put on her coat, and, as she did so, slipped an envelope into Oleg's inside overcoat pocket. Oleg was reading the Sunday paper, and took no notice.

That evening, Oleg discovered the envelope. He was shocked. What the hell is this? He opened the envelope, and read the letter.

"I work in the White House, and have access to sensitive information of the most highly classified nature. I am willing to provide certain information. I am a Communist; I do not want money. If you want to make contact, then wait in the Baptismal Area of St. Patrick's Cathedral in Washington on December 15th at 12:30 p.m. I will give you something of value. No time for personal details. Send one man."

Oleg Vankowsky forwarded the note to Moscow. KGB Moscow sent instructions to the Washington Soviet Embassy KGB Chief Resident. He was to seat himself adjacent to the Baptismal area, and wait. Within a few seconds, and out of nowhere, a figure silently passed him an envelope from behind. A woman's voice coldly threatened, "Don't move for thirty seconds." That short exchange defined a relationship that rarely faltered.

Apollo always wore a veiled hat, gloves, and dark glasses – one meeting a red wig; the next, a black one. She was very secretive and shrewd, and only wanted to assist the cause of Communism. She did not accept money. Occasionally, an ad was placed in the Washington Post.

"Will Gregory S. please call his brother?"

The words 'brother' and 'call' combined with the male name were the operative words. The meetings were on the second Wednesday of the following month. It graduated one weekday after each meeting.

This arrangement worked well, and Apollo always delivered. She seemed to anticipate KGB requirements. It seemed that she almost read their minds. The frustration of not being in complete control finally gave way to acquiescence. It took a short time to code her as 'Apollo'.

The extremely sensitive information she provided made KGB believe she worked in the West Wing. This was just fine with Apollo. They never got a fix on who she was, or where she worked. Little did they know she was a Karate black belt, and any move toward her would put her opponent on his back in less than a second. Apollo always kept the contact a comfortable distance away. She positioned herself so no one could make a move toward her without giving her the advantage. One time, a KGB contact made an ever so slight movement toward her. In less than a second, he was on the floor, staring at a can of mace. At one point, the KGB conducted a discreet surveillance of St. Patrick's. Apollo didn't show up for the scheduled meeting. A week later, the KGB Chief Resident had dinner at the Palm Room. When he returned home, he found a very nasty note in his raincoat. It was accompanied by a photograph of one of the KGB men outside the church.

"You try that again, and we are done."

The Chief Resident actually peed his pants. How she managed to get the envelope into his pocket remains a mystery. KGB never attempted surveillance of her again.

****

### Back in the Good Old USSR, Again

Vassily Nolitsyn was also shocked and frightened at the news of Charlie Waters' arrest. He knew that KGB Moscow would go nuts. Everybody is guilty until proven guilty. The immediate suspicion fell on Viktor Rostov, because he had been BlueDog's handler for many years. General Yuchenko sent investigators to Washington to interview all of the embassy personnel who may have had contact with BlueDog. Of course, the general did not believe that Rostov was a traitor.

Since Vassily had no direct contact and no knowledge of BlueDog, he was recruited as a member of the investigative team. He was told to polygraph his boss as a matter of routine. KGB wanted to know if the FBI had a mole in the embassy. Or had they lost him through some other means?

Apollo said there was no evidence of embassy penetration by the opposition.

Vassily knew he eventually would come under suspicion. Viktor had the Asian flu that day last year when Vassily took his place at the parking structure handoff. Would Viktor remember? No paperwork was ever generated about the change in contacts. The day that the Asian flu ravaged Viktor was Vassily's protector. As Vassily was part of the investigative team, he was given only passing interest by the KGB BlueDog investigators. His work was to service dead drops, not to contact agents directly. Moscow eventually assumed that someone else had discovered BlueDog. Little did they know how much the Soviet embassy had been penetrated by U.S. Counter Intelligence. Over time, KGB could not point to a guilty party.

But now General Yuchenko had a much larger problem. Four remaining dead drops and, one, possibly two agent meetings, must be taken care of as soon as possible. Also, an agent in Texas wanted to stop working for us, and this would require a face-to-face meeting. Care and feeding, that's what this agent needed, the General knew.

After a long and spirited conference at the Kremlin, KGB was ordered to unload the last four drops. It was vital that Soviet engineers and designers be supplied with the drawings, data tapes, and chemical propellant samples from BlueDog's contacts.

The Deputy Secretary of the Politburo was insistent, "We must, and we will keep ahead of the Americans at any cost."

"This will be very dangerous, Deputy Secretary. It is too soon. The opposition has a taste of fresh blood."

The First Secretary of the Communist Party chimed in, "Aleksei, this is Communism. We can always get another man. People are a ruble a dozen. Get on with it."

"Of course First Secretary, it will be done."

General Yuchenko returned to KGB Headquarters and got on with it.

KGB had been dealing with Kremlin bureaucrats for 50 years. They know what to do. They don't need to be told. The KGB Third directorate will use a Soviet operative. He was not known to the Soviet Embassy, or to any Soviet personnel in the United States, and he will act alone. The material from the four drops must be recovered as quickly as possible. Soviet agents in the U.S. have been notified by both shortwave radio and classified ads in newspapers.

These are standard signals that tell the agents to go to ground, and wait for further instructions. General Yuchenko made a momentous decision. He would use the Red Army GRU spy organization; they had the personnel. GRU was notified to dispatch an agent with the following qualifications:

Speaks English with an American accent.

Knows the American people and the geography of the nation.

Has unquestioned loyalty to the Soviet state.

Experienced in clandestine or covert operations in the U.S.

The GRU, like KGB, and other Intelligence Agencies around the world, has stables in satellite countries and at home. Agents are fed, housed, clothed, paid, trained, and, when duty calls, dispatched from stables according to the needs of the state. The American directorate of the GRU has a list of over 20 possible recruits. They were constantly trained in language, infiltration, exfiltration, codes, American social skills, etc. – the list is endless. Black infiltration by water will be the method used to enter the United States on this mission.

The personnel roster included all races, religions and educational background. Don't ever think your next-door neighbor was simply a real estate salesman or plumber. Many Soviet agents spend most of their lives as nursery owners, doctors and truck drivers waiting for the call. For many years, Rudolf Abel, a famous Soviet agent, was a photographer in Brooklyn.

The list of potential candidates was pared down to seven, then to three, and finally Major Dmitry Ivanovich Padorin was sent to General Yuchenko.

The General had a complete dossier on Major Padorin, and after careful review, he agreed the GRU has sent a good man. He noted the following:

a. 15 year Soviet Army and GRU veteran. Currently a Major, he will be up for Lieutenant Colonel in six months.

b. Three operations in the U.S., all black infiltration and exfiltration by submarine.

c. Language credentials were excellent. He spoke English like a native.

d. Has excellent cryptographic skills. He memorizes substitution codes with ease.

e. Married, with two children, they live in Zagorsk. He will come back.

f. Finally, and most importantly, a loyal Communist Party member.

Dmitry Padorin is a nice looking young man of 38, jet black hair, a 6' product of the Soviet Union, and a highly disciplined and trained GRU agent. A former Spetsnaz officer, the Red Army's Commandos, he will do what he was told to do without question. The Soviet Motherland has no better son.

General Yuchenko, along with his team and Major Padorin spend three days together. Dmitry absorbed the details quickly, and drafted an operations plan to unload the four remaining drops. Although he didn't know the exact policy details, he understood the information was extremely important to the Soviet Union.

The orders read, _"Infiltrate the United States via Soviet November Class Submarine K137. The sub will trail a soviet cruise ship along the eastern seaboard. The sub will follow close behind until reaching the U.S. coastline near Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. 20 miles off shore, the sub will silently surface. Rubber raft and outboard motor will be provided. The sub will be on the surface for no more than three minutes. The K137 will submerge, and continue following the cruise ship to Cuba."_

The Soviets' past experience told them that SOSUS (Sound Surveillance System), the American submarine-tracking network, would have difficulty tracking K137.

On arrival at the beach near Atlantic City, North Carolina, Padorin would find a gray Honda sedan. As soon as practical, he would report his safe arrival by a short coded message on his transceiver. Then he was to proceed in quick order to the cities listed on his drop schedule. An American agent would load the drop, and notify Moscow by shortwave transmission. Padorin was to wait for a signal from Moscow that the drop was loaded, and then proceed to unload it.

Dmitry knew all this. This would be his fourth mission. But this time there was an edge to General Yuchenko's voice he hadn't heard before. After all, he was a Soviet GRU agent, and this action was SOP.

_Standard Operating Procedure_ , Dmitry thought. _Simple SOP. So what's the big deal here?_

With one exception, no direct contact was expected between Padorin and any source. The details of unloading, marking the unload sign, and radio notification had been reviewed by Dmitry and the KGB. He knew the process by heart, and was ready. In California, he would purchase an open sea-going fishing craft. He would motor approximately 15 to 20 miles directly west into the Pacific north of San Miguel Island. There, he would board K137 at a pre-appointed time for extraction.

_Again_ , Dmitry thought, a _gain, what's different here? This is another day at the office._

His trip across the U.S. should take 10 to 14 days, maximum. Periodic communication by coded signals was standard and expected. If necessary, he would use a memorized series of single word codes to further report his progress. He would be carrying an English translation of Tolstoy's _War and Peace_ with the codes buried in the text.

Dmitry Padorin tells his wife that he will be gone for three or four weeks. He has a job that will bring him and his family great reward. This will be the fourth time he has been to the U.S. by this means, and again, he will bring back nice gifts for Natasha, and the children, Ivan and Maria. Natasha wants Chanel No. Five perfume and scented bath powder. If possible, he will bring a toy car for three-year-old Ivan and a new book in English for 6-year-old Maria. She wants to learn the English language, so she can understand the lyrics of her American Rock-n-Roll records.

****

### Torpedo Man

Frank Johnson left for work in Hanover, Virginia at 7:30 a.m. He spent the morning resolving difficulties with the Mark V torpedo engine cooling system. Project management remained convinced that increased speed could be attained. He knew they were right, and it was up to him to solve the problem. Perhaps a better coolant flow and a more efficient pump would do it.

Despite the intensity of the project, the main issue in Frank's mind was money. 10 years ago, he was earning his masters degree in Electrical Engineering. At the same time he was working full time at Gerhing, Haskell & Rosen (GHR) Engineering. He was angry, because they did not pay for his graduate education, or even part of it. He resented that. He and Mary lived in an older home. She worked at a retail store. Frank had been at GHR for 15 years now, and life was still difficult. GHR didn't consider Frank much of an engineer. He would neither forget nor forgive that rebuff, never. He was 5'7", 39 years old, always wore a bow tie, was partially bald, and was an avid golfer.

Now, in 1987, five years after his first contact with the Soviets, and an hour after this drop today, he would make $5000. Over the years, the money went up. The drawings were better, so the money was better. He was bringing home more money as a spy than as an engineer. He also learned how to stretch things out, make more drops, and make more bucks. You might call it a market approach to spying. Last year, he made over $20,000 cash from the Russians, all tax-free.

Frank knew what the Russians wanted, and he sold it to them. So, approximately every two months, he collected $5000 for an hour's work. He hid the money in his basement, and used it for anything that wouldn't draw attention. Three years ago in 1986, he and his wife took a cruise to the Bahamas where he opened a numbered account with a Swiss Bank. In the late 80s, this wasn't such a big deal and the Swiss were notoriously close mouthed. Frank had a credit card keyed to that account, and using 'system' money he remodeled his house. If questioned, he would explain that he had an inheritance from Europe, and received a stipend every month. But no questions were ever raised about money. His security clearance was reissued with a Top Secret label two years ago.

****

### A Soviet Model

When he was six years old, Dmitry started school in Stalingrad. He was an excellent student, and caught the eye of his instructors. When he graduated from high school, Dmitry was enrolled in the Zaitsev Engineering Institute of Stalingrad. Zaitsev, a famous WWII sniper, was the subject of the novel, _Enemy at the Gates_.

After several interviews, Captain Padorin was enlisted in the GRU and sent to Moscow for intensive training in foreign intelligence operations. You would not decline this type of invitation. Eight months later, he was assigned to the Fourth Directorate. Further language training for six months made him a proficient English speaker with a slight Boston accent.

The Fourth Directorate, an arm of the GRU but not well known, was dedicated to infiltration of Soviet agents into the United States. Their primary mission was courier duty. They were dispatched by submarine to the U.S. Coastline. This is a method used by most countries. After infiltration, the GRU officer was to penetrate deep into the U.S., meet with resident sources, recover information and facilitate conveyance to the Soviet Union.

Six years ago, an older and more experienced agent escorted Dmitry on his first mission into the U.S. Dmitry performed as expected. After that, he was on his own. He always returned to Natasha and the children. They had him pegged as a true son of the Soviet Motherland. After five years, he was promoted to Major.

In New Mexico, Brett Culpepper hungrily reads the latest interrogation reports. He insists that the interrogators question Charlie Waters about the Albuquerque Alley incident. He is told: We will wait and see.

****

### The Operation Commences

Captain Boris Zloty, 10-year veteran of the Soviet Navy, readies K137 for a high priority mission to the United States' eastern seaboard. He has the boat ready in less than one week. His crew is one of the best. No conscripts. His submariners are volunteers to a man.

KGB is involved, as they always were. Their man would be dockside in three days. Sealed orders would be opened only after getting under way.

KGB is in a hurry.

Boris wonders, _What's up?_ but asks no questions.

This trip will be almost 'ho hum' for the crew.

The KGB, Boris and his crew have been in the infiltration/exfiltration business for years.

A Zodiac two-man rubber raft, a Japanese 15-horsepower outboard motor, a French gas tank, and other third country items are loaded aboard K137 – third country because such goods are easiest to disclaim should operations be interrupted by American CI. A storage box is installed just under the deck. The inflated raft, motor, gas tank, and the rest of the equipment are stored in the container. Everything is at hand for fast retrieval. When tested, the motor begins running on the second pull of the rope starter. All equipment is checked and rechecked.

We are ready.

Three days later, a young man, dressed in civilian clothes and carrying a large briefcase, appears in the early morning fog. After brief introductions, he inspects the raft, the motor and the gas tank. Captain Zloty carries sealed orders issued by the Soviet Navy.

The U-boat and her crew are ready to get under way.

The navigation officer plots a course to the open sea.

****

### Into the Waves

Dmitry went below and was given the Executive Officer's cabin. In the wardroom, the Captain went over the course and timetable with his officers. Later, that evening, K137 submerges at dockside and slides out of its covered enclosure. It was cloudy, and very cold. The captain maneuvers the sub into the Baltic by 0400 hours. In the open sea, the Political Officer, the navigation officer, Lt. Ivanov, and Dmitry were present when Captain Zloty opened his sealed orders. He read the orders, and passed the navigation plot to Lt. Ivanov. No comments or objections. It's another cut and dry infiltration mission to the east coast of the United States. Ho Hum.

Dmitry thought, _10 days in this smelly cracker box, lousy food, and no one to talk to. This will be my fourth trip to the U.S., and should be an easy mission. But, is my luck running out? I will pay attention to every detail, no mistakes._

In his tiny cubicle, he studied the Operations Plan, over and again.

Inside four days, the sub was in the open Atlantic. Depth was 700 feet and speed was 6 knots, slow and silent. Upon reaching the rendezvous point, patrolling began, a wide arch off the Canadian coast and the wait for the arrival of the cruise ship began.

2100 hours, 14 April 1990

A Soviet cruise ship, the Fedor Shalypin, bound for Cuba, began her run along the Canadian and American coasts. The cruise ship's Captain and her Political Officer were aware of a change in course and speed along a stretch of the North Carolina Coastline off Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. At 2100 hours, her speed was slowly decreased to 5 knots. The captain was to hold that speed for seven minutes and then resume his 15-knot speed for the rest of the run to Havana.

Aboard K137, the sonar technician listened as the sub's speed was decreased to match the cruise ship's speed. The diving officer brought the sub up to 80 feet. Everyone was ready – the captain, Dmitry, and a three-man deck crew. Speed was still five knots. Course was set to 187 degrees to match the Fedor Shalypin's direction.

Captain Zloty had maneuvered K137 behind and immediately beneath the cruise ship's stern, thus adding erratic vibrations to the cruise ship. Even if SOSUS, the U.S. Sound Surveillance System, could hear the sub, which was very doubtful, they could not determine its position. Weather was helping. A squall was adding confusing echoes to that area of the North Atlantic. The sub's depth was only 50' and they were rigged for silent routine. To avoid any possible detection, he wanted to be as close to the cruise ship as possible.

K137 then decreased her speed to three knots on the battery, and slowly raised her to a position of 'decks slightly awash'. The cruise ship was less than 100 meters ahead, running without lights on her stern, as instructed.

The Captain quietly ordered, "All Stop."

The crewmen and their guest exited the hatch at the base of the conning tower. Quickly, a crewman raised the deck lid, opened the container, and pulled the outboard motor from the infiltration kit. One man grabbed the fuel. Another pulled the raft onto the deck.

One minute had passed.

Seas were fairly calm, but the air was cold. Fog surrounded both vessels. The men slid the raft into the sea. One man held the raft steady while another securely attached the 15-horsepower motor, connected the fuel tank, and started the outboard motor. Second pull and it caught.

Two minutes had passed.

The outboard was extremely quiet. Hand signals ensued between the men on deck. Dmitry got into the raft. The rest of his gear was handed to him. All set. Quick equipment check; and, yes, he has everything.

2.5 minutes.

Following a barely visible salute to the men on deck, Dmitry shoved off. The crew ran back to the con and closed the hatch.

3.0 minutes.

K137 had already started to submerge. In the cold and almost windless night, Dmitry attached a waterproof compass to his leg with a rubber band, pushed a small button, and read the illuminated dial. He then turned due north by northwest, maneuvering toward Atlantic Beach, North Carolina.

2230 hours, 14 April 1990

According to his calculations and the plan, Atlantic Beach should be an hour away, 25 miles or so.

After 55 minutes, he saw the dimly lit beach houses on Atlantic Beach's south shore. Photos of the shoreline, imprinted in his mind, guided him on.

While looking toward shore, he spoke softly, "Is this right, are the lights spaced correctly?"

A few anxious seconds later, images – embedded in his mind while studying pre-op photos – answered.

Steering the boat toward the west end of the beach where a row of houses faded to nothing, he spoke softly, "Yes, they are."

At about 100 feet before the shoreline, he turned off the motor, slashed the raft with his knife, and allowed the motor to pull the raft to the bottom of the sea. Using his equipment bag, and watertight briefcase as a floatation device, he let the swells and the light surf carry him, ever so slowly, toward the beach.

It was deserted.

He lay at the waters edge, half in and half out of the surf. Catching his breath, he picked up the two bags and ran toward the high beach grass. Hearing nothing except the lap of waves against the beach, he walked through the grass to the road, to the gray, four-door Honda sedan, with North Carolina license plates, parked roadside. He checked the area, and confirmed the car was empty. The keys were covered by a rock placed next to the right front tire.

Dmitry hurriedly returned to the beach, retrieved his bags, and carried them to the car. He shed his black infill clothes, dried his face and hair, and changed into blue jeans and a flannel shirt. He tossed a dark blue baseball cap on the front seat, put the GRU bag under the passenger seat, then stowed the rest in the trunk behind the spare tire. He would dispose of them later. He checked his watch.

2330 hours, 14 April 1990

"On schedule," he mouthed.

Two weeks prior, a Mr. Bill Blandd, landscape equipment salesman from Charleston, North Carolina, had received a coded message. Bill, who had been a sleeper agent for five years, was instructed to take his car to Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. He was to leave his drivers' license, credit card, and other personal information in the glove compartment.

Dmitry started the car and drove to Interstate 95. After 30 minutes or so, he pulled the car into a rest stop. The night sky was still pitch black with a foggy and overcast sky. He pulled the now useless equipment bag from the trunk and tossed it into a dumpster. A couple long haul trucks were at the stop, along with a few cars. It was quiet and peaceful. He walked into the men's restroom, and did his business. Returning to the car, Dmitry pulled out his GRU bag from underneath the front passenger seat.

Ah yes, the infamous GRU bag. Standard issue. Sometimes black leather; sometimes brown. Sometimes something else. Always holding money. This time an envelope with $20,000 in U.S. Currency, and three smaller sealed envelopes for payoffs. A secret compartment was built in the bottom of the bag. A transceiver made to look like a standard AM/FM radio was included. An English translation of _War and Peace_ was used as a recognition device, a diversion from work, and a codebook.

Dmitry removed the transceiver and placed a power connector into the cigarette lighter. He extended the antenna out the window, and turned it on. It actually played music. He pushed two buttons, and Willie Nelson stopped singing. He flipped a switch, and pushed another button twice. He flipped the switch back, and listened. After 15 seconds, he heard three short beeps from the speaker. That was how it worked, simple, and quick. Moscow now knew that Dmitry Padorin had reached the U.S., and was proceeding toward Virginia for his first rendezvous with destiny.

He continued north on Interstate 95 to Hanover, Virginia. It was 3:30 p.m. April 15th. He had a long day. He filled the car up with gas, and found a motel. He checked in, paid with cash, and took his bag into the room. The motel clerk suspected nothing. In fact, Dmitry looked like just another traveling salesman.

Dmitry needed to get something to eat, and to buy clothes. He found a thrift store, and bought $50 worth of blue jeans, casual slacks, sports jacket, shirts, shoes, and socks. He would change clothes and his look as he motored across the country. A local barbecue restaurant called Adams Ribs satisfied his hunger.

Dmitry was confident he was undetected. He was due to unload a drop the following day. He fell asleep quickly. He slept late into the morning, 7:30 a.m. He took a shower, dressed in blue jeans and a polo shirt. After all, he was supposed to be selling landscape equipment, and supplies. After breakfast, he returned to the motel, loaded the car, dropped off the key with the clerk, and drove off. He knew the location of the drop in Hanover, the load/unload signals, and the approximate time the drop would be ready.

"Saddle up," as the Americans say. Dmitry knew the Americans well. He never underestimated them, ever. They were tough, resilient, and smart. He was not going to be one of their victims. This was his fourth trip to the U.S., and probably his last. He believed he would be promoted, and given a training job back home.

However, he was ever conscious of issues associated with the political situation back in the Soviet Union. Gorbachev was trying to extend the Communist Party by Perestroika and Glasnost. Openness and participation were the latest rage. These concepts were merely carefully crafted words to force people to stand in line to buy toilet paper, to give them hope that a better day was just about to break open, along with that new roll.

"No mind, my country will succeed," Dmitry whispered as drove past the Lions Club Welcome sign marking the entrance to the small town of Hanover.

****

### Next Stop, Maryland

Frank Johnson left for lunch at 11:30 a.m. and drove to the Forest Hills Community Park, a small multi-use facility near the outskirts of Hanover. The parking lot was empty where he stopped in front of the public restroom. A bulletin board was attached to the wall of the building. He walked up to it and pretended to look at the notices. He withdrew an index card from his pocket and tacked it to the board with a red map tack. As he walked into the men's room he inspected the upper corners of the concrete block walls. No video camera. Good. He chose the third stall, entered, and closed the door. From his jacket he removed a small black plastic box and snapped it between the bottom of the toilet tank and the wall. In the past, his "employer" had left several different types of boxes at a drop site for his use. He walked out the door and sauntered back to his car. Since no one was visible, he removed the transistor radio/transceiver from the glove compartment, connected it, extended the antenna out the window, and turned it on. After a moment, he flipped a switch, and then pressed a button three times. He flipped the switch again, and waited. 15 seconds later, the radio beeped four times. It was 11:45 a.m. precisely. It was a little risky to do this in the parking lot, but he felt confident he wasn't seen. He drove to Adams Ribs for lunch.

Meanwhile, at a laundry in Hanover, Dmitry folded his new clothes, now newly washed, and returned to his car. Agents like Dmitry are always 'scrubbing' their past to avoid detection. It was 11:30 a.m. when he finished. He drove to an empty lot behind the laundromat and parked. Hanover was a small town, not many people around, and he saw nothing suspicious. He removed the radio from his GRU case, and connected it to the cigarette lighter. He extended the antenna and stuck it out the window. He had a clear Northwestern exposure. He turned it on at precisely 12:00 p.m., and flipped a switch. He waited. At 12:02, the transceiver came alive with four beeps. He flipped a switch, pushed a button three times, shut it off, and put it in the glove compartment. The drop was ready.

Dmitry drove to Forest Hills Community Park, and parked in front of the building that housed the restrooms. He walked to the building and looked at the bulletin board.

An index card read: Wanted: Hanover Park. Baby Sitter, please call 804-555-1212.

He removed the card and red tack from the board, and walked into the men's room. Checking for video surveillance, Dmitry carefully scanned the room. Seeing no cameras in the empty room, he walked into the third stall and closed the door. He reached behind the tank and felt – nothing. What is this? He looked behind the tank. Nothing! He walked out of the stall in a panic and slammed the door. Four stalls. This was the third one. After a couple of seconds, he thought, what if this American counts backwards. He walked into the other third stall and – _Bingo!_ – found the box.

After stuffing the box in his inside pocket, he left the restroom. Dmitry casually looked at the bulletin board again, threw the now crumpled index card into a trashcan, and returned to his car. He did not open the box, and drove north out of Hanover. He spotted a familiar name on a road sign and turned right. 100' down that road was a very large Elm tree. No one was in sight. He parked well off the road about 30' away. At the base of the tree was a rock. Underneath the rock was a hole that contained a metal box. He opened it, and dropped in one of the numbered envelopes, snapped the lid closed, and replaced the rock. He was hungry, and drove back into town. He drove to Adams Ribs, where he ate a plate of ribs, beans, and potato salad.

_Good food,_ he thought. _Popular place._

At 12:40, Frank Johnson left Adams Ribs, and drove to the dead drop site, or as he called it, the payoff spot. Sure enough, an envelope in a black plastic container was under a rock by the now familiar Elm tree. He returned to his vehicle, placed the payoff envelope under the car seat, and drove back to work.

It was 1:00 p.m.

For Frank, it was just another day.

****

### On to D.C.

Feeling a little rushed and under pressure, Dmitry finished his lunch and walked to his car. Before leaving, he thought he should take inventory, even though it meant being delayed a little longer. He opened his case and unfastened the secret compartment. Two numbered payoff envelopes remained.

He thought, _Good. Move on. Time is important to this mission._

After starting up the car, he pulled into traffic. For some strange reason, he began to feel edgy about this mission.

By 5:00 p.m., Dmitry was in D.C. After checking into the Chevy Chase Congress Motel for two days, he ate at a nearby restaurant, and paid in cash. He hit the rack early. The day had been long, and felt like he was getting a cold virus. He did not feel like his typical GRU self. He was in perfect physical condition, but dragging a bit. _Why? Is it because this is my fourth trip into enemy territory? Am I losing my edge? Am I becoming casual about my operations?_

He lay back on the bed, stared at the ceiling through the darkness, and listened to noise on the street outside his room. He thought of the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. There was much more than a simple difference of two letters dividing the two countries. Dmitry consistently saw stark differences between the two. He knew his Communist masters were lying to the people. The worker's paradise was nothing more than dictatorship and gulag. There was no freedom for the masses. That kind of freedom remained elusive everywhere. Maybe it had never existed anywhere. Their was only rationing and consumerism; toilet paper and hope for a new day.

"Bah!" he spat at the ceiling through the darkness that seemed nearly palpable.

****

### Detail Man

Across town, something else was happening. At approximately 5:50 p.m., Arthur Van Hodges III, Harvard graduate of the Kennedy School of foreign policy, with a major in Soviet Studies, gathered some important papers and placed them in his briefcase. Arthur left word at work that he might be late arriving the next morning. His secretary, Ms. Grant, had said she understood, and said, "Good Night," as she had been doing every evening for many years. Arthur left his fourth floor office at the State Department on E Street to drive home.

Six feet tall, Arthur looked the part of a State Department bureaucrat. At 55 years old, his hair was slightly gray; he sported a thin mustache and neatly trimmed beard, and wore British cut pin strip suits from Savile Row. He looked like an undertaker, stern but placid.

Arthur Van Hodges III has worked at the State Department for 21 years. He has been passed over for promotion a couple of times. Well, maybe more than a couple of times. Seven years ago, he decided to take advantage of his position and, at the same time, take his revenge. The State Department brass wants him right where he is, five positions down from any real power. His superiors are aware of his foreign policy detail, and they believe that his gray matter does not encompass foreign policy issues of a larger scope and scale. This is all code for 'They have him where they want him, and he isn't going to continue up the ladder or threaten them'.

Arthur is Second Assistant to the Deputy Secretary for Eastern European Policy, John Baker.

John Baker was not a political appointee. A career diplomat at the State Department, he worked his way up the State Department steps from intern to where he is now, the Assistant to the Deputy for Eastern European Policy. He is a sharp and wily man. His philosophy? It's all in who you know, not what you know. He reports to the Deputy Secretary of State for European Policy, William DuPonte.

William DuPonte was not a political appointee either, and he also started at the bottom. He, too, graduated from Harvard, the Ivy League State Department University – Harvard knowingly produces many State Department employees, and, unknowingly, many Soviet spies. DuPonte majored in foreign policy, as did Arthur Van Hodges III. Both names are well known in D.C. Mr. DuPonte reports to the Deputy Secretary of State, James Tucker.

James Tucker was definitely a political appointee. He has worked at several think tanks, the Foreign Policy Institute, the Burlington Organization, the National Security Interest Policy Institute, and others. Following the chain of pecking order, Tucker reports to the Secretary of State, Robert Arlinger.

Robert Arlinger, the Secretary of State for four years, has the President's confidence, and relies heavily on the Deputy Secretary. Mr. Arlinger has policy statements drafted/written by Wm. Duponte, John Baker, and, of course, Arthur Van Hodges III.

Arthur creates policy drafts from scratch. The documents are forwarded to his superior, who reviews them, and forwards them to his superior. They are modified as to author's name and date, and then forwarded again. Meaningful content is changed little, if any, but Arthur's work is no longer his. Arthur's work is, you might say, hijacked. It becomes someone else's work. Someone else gets the credit and the pat on the back. This sort of plagiarism is SOP at the State Department. Arthur knows this and was so not 'impressed' by his superior's 'standard operating procedure' that he chose to find a different publisher, one who might appreciate his efforts, one willing to pay for his services.

What his superiors at the State Department changed in Arthur's drafts was to translate his work into the current 'Vision of Reality' at the White House. In Arthur's opinion, this revised 'Vision of Reality' was so much nonsense. Didn't they learn anything from past experience? Foreign policy has its own language with complicated relationships that are time and personality related. Arthur believes his superiors use an astrologer (Reagan Administration) or an Ouija board (Bush Administration) to dictate foreign policy. Actually, his superiors and both administrations had been destroying years of patient and difficult work on the part of Arthur Van Hodges III to fit their own 'Vision of Reality'.

During the seven years Arthur has worked to write policy drafts for the State Department, he has been heavily influencing European foreign policy of the United States. Mr. Van Hodges III has an agenda to move the foreign policy of the U.S. away from a non-productive, dysfunctional 'Vision of Reality' toward a productive, functional 'Arthur Van Hodges III Vision of Reality'. Through two presidencies, Arthur has been creating documents between Presidents Reagan and Bush, and their equally hard-line Communist counterpart, Gorbachev. None of the world's leaders were going to budge one inch if these three didn't, so Van Hodges III created foreign policy documents that provided a plausible approach both sides of the Cold War could live with. In Arthur's worldview, his policy missives have been successfully moving foreign policy of the United States toward a less discordant, more acquiescent direction.

Apparently his plans had worked. The U.S. and the U.S.S.R. were buddies now, the world was a little better off, and Arthur Van Hodges III was definitely much wealthier.

Rumors had been around for years in the State Department that key elements of U.S. foreign policy were being directed from behind Kremlin walls. But by whom? And how?

Even if they learned he existed, a high-powered white knight playing the role of black knight, they could never identify Arthur Van Hodges III. Arthur had planned too carefully to be discovered.

****

### Hand-Off in Georgetown

On Tuesday, April 17th, 1990, Arthur left his Georgetown home at 7:00 a.m. He drove his new black Mercedes 450 to a coffee shop near Foxhall Square. A light misty rain was falling. He carried an umbrella and an envelope of seven, single spaced typewritten pages in his inside breast pocket. He had the coffee of the day, small, purchased a _Washington Post_ , and sat down to read. No one he recognized was in the shop; it was almost empty at 7:25 a.m. After ten minutes or so, he stood up, collected his umbrella, and sauntered to the front door.

Dmitry was in the alley beside the dumpster on time.

A little chilly, today. How many times have I done this in my life. About 100, more or less. Keep an eye out for your man, down the alley by the coffee shop. Watch the streets and cars, anybody around? Nope, we're okay for now. Where is he? It's time. Two more minutes and I'm gone.

Just then Dmitry saw a tall distinguished looking man turn and walk down the alley. Him? Yep. Newspaper in the right hand, umbrella in his left hand at the alley entrance. So far, all correct. Here he comes. The man stops just short, pauses, and says, "Does this alley go through to the next street?"

Dmitry replies, "It does, but the street is a dead end."

The man handed Dmitry an envelope, and Dmitry gave him a payoff envelope. No other words were spoken. The man took the envelope and briskly walked to the far end of the alley. Dmitry watched him until he was out of sight.

The entire episode took less than 60 seconds.

Arthur walked to his car, and drove to work. He was done, probably for two or three months, perhaps longer. He cautiously glanced at the envelope contents. From past experience, it had the feel of $10,000. Since it was a little bulky, he drove around a corner, pulled over, and stuck it under his front seat. Arthur Van Hodges now reported for work a little after 9:00 a.m., an acceptable hour for upper level State Department bureaucrats.

Across the U.S., in Albuquerque, New Mexico, Brett Culpepper is still apprehensive about the alley incident in Old Town. Brett's cold, goal oriented mind was working overtime, What happened there? Would they use it again? Are they wise to us? Maybe we should put a movement or video camera in the alley. I'll talk to Doug about it.

Eight thousand miles away, Soviet General Yuchenko's secretary came in to his office.

"Sir, the Deputy First Secretary's office called. He wants the contents from 'Cook' as soon as possible. The embassy is to get them from our man and immediately forward them to Moscow. An order is on its way from the Kremlin."

"Very well. Thank you Miss Tushkov. Uh, get that Major Zhukov or whatever his name is from communications up here."

"Yes, sir. I'll take care of it."

A short time later, the red granite hallway reverberated with Major Zhukov's boots, again.

"Major, send this order to our embassy in Washington at once."

"Yes, sir. It will be done."

****

### A Risky Handoff

Dmitry Padorin will report his contact, as it was an important one. Readying his radio in an abandoned building parking lot, he chooses a side with a clear northeast view. The building helps bounce the signal toward the Northeast. He sends the appropriate tones, informing Moscow he has obtained the envelope.

He expects three return beeps.

He receives six. That means wait.

Be prepared to record the codes.

He replies with two beeps. He is ready.

Ten seconds later, he receives the following codes:

Dog – Scarecrow – Basket - Bottle - City – Author - 14.

Decoded from his copy of _War and Peace_ , the message reads:

"Handoff this date, 1400 hours Bookshelf bookstore, European history section, Lincoln Street, Georgetown." Recognition signal, 'Tolstoy'.

A change of plans is unexpected, and Dmitry Padorin did not like the change one bit:

We are in the heart of the capitalist beast and they want me to make two man-to-man contacts in one day? What the hell is going on here?

At the Soviet Embassy in Washington, Viktor Rostov received an important message from Moscow. It would be too risky for Viktor to expose himself. Vassily was the only man trusted and available to take the handoff. It was 10:30 a.m. With Counter Surveillance requirements, he can just make the contact in time. Moscow said this was very important; he was to get an envelope from a contact, and forward it to Moscow ASAP.

Vassily left the embassy with another KGB operative and a driver. At 11:00 a.m. they drove out into traffic. The driver took over two hours to elude surveillance, and finally dropped the two men in Georgetown. Both men separated and arrived at the Georgetown bookstore at a little after 1:50 p.m.

However, U.S. Army CI Agent Jim McClain also arrived at the bookstore just minutes after Vassily and his partner. He watched as they entered the bookstore.

Vassily bought a coffee, sat down, and read a _Playboy_ magazine. He signaled 'All Clear' to his comrade. At precisely 2:00 p.m., he wandered to the shelves, and lingered at the European History section. He picked up a book, and opened it.

A voice said to him, "Do you read history?"

Somewhat startled, Vassily looked up, and saw a man on the other side of the bookshelf.

Dmitry replied, "Yes, Tolstoy is my favorite."

The man then said, "You might check out the _Gulag Archipelago_ by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn."

The man then walked away. Vassily strolled to the other side, saw three copies of _War and Peace_ , and selected a copy that was sitting on the shelf slightly apart from the others. Between the pages of the book was an envelope. Vassily turned aside while slipping the envelope into his coat pocket. He took the book to the cashier, purchased it, and walked out of the store. His comrade remained a few steps behind him. The embassy driver picked up the two men several blocks away. Upon his return to the embassy, Vassily handed the envelope to Viktor. The contents were immediately translated into the Soviets' most secure code before being sent to Moscow. The originals would be forwarded with the regular diplomatic courier.

Vassily wondered, _Who was the man at the bookstore?_ He couldn't recall where he had seen him before. But, he did recognize his face.

All well and good for Vassily, except that Jim McClain watched Vassily exit the bookstore. Jim's partner took pictures of the other men as they left the bookstore.

****

### Panhandle Rendezvous

With his duty completed in Washington, Dmitry drove into the sunset toward the Texas Panhandle, three days to reach Amarillo, and the Big Tex Statue. Russians like the American West's cowboys, Indians, and shoot 'em up stories about Jesse James, the Sundance Kid, and wars with Mexico for land and treasure.

But Dmitry's trip to this place had a far different purpose than simple storytelling. The Texas panhandle was his destination today. And, a top agent at Pantex. It was one of the most secure facilities in the free world. A mouse will not get in without the proper pass. No bother, we, of course are not meeting there anyway.

Dmitry drove into the sunset, mulling issues requiring his attention, considering his mission to meet with 'Morris', another longtime source at the Pantex facility. It was suspected that Morris wanted to end his long career with them. If he remained, Morris would undoubtedly want more money. He had been supplying the Soviet Union with information that had greatly assisted the Soviet's assembly and disassembly process of thermonuclear weapons. Morris hand wrote documentation describing the process. The Soviet cruise missile program has been greatly aided by this agent. Morris's role as a traitor to his country might be eating at his conscience. Dmitry was to meet Morris to discuss his reluctance to continue. He was told to try to keep Morris on board at all costs.

How am I supposed to do that? Blackmail him? Possibly, I know more about Morris than Morris knows about himself.

****

### Morris? Who's Morris?

Clyde Riddle was what Texans affectionately call 'a good ol' boy'. He was a steady blue-collar worker. He had applied to Pantex Ordnance Plant for a job 12 years ago as a nuclear maintenance facility technician. Pantex was an assembly plant with tons of security. Since he had never been outside the Texas panhandle, his security clearance was a breeze. He and his wife Mabel had no children, yet they were the proud owners of two Rottweilers. After 10 years of mediocre pay, he was promoted to nuclear device assembler. His security clearance was upgraded to Top Secret Ultra, but he did not receive a raise. It was considered a horizontal transfer. Plant management didn't care if he were a genius; they just wanted him to accept his position (at the plant and in life) and keep his mouth shut. Clyde was 39 years old, and couldn't see how to better his professional life. Bottom line, he wanted more money. He was making about the same as a grocery checker at the local Piggly Wiggly. Management said the job paid a certain amount and that was it. Clyde said, "Okay, thanks. I was just askin'."

Pantex engineers trained him to assemble and disassemble nuclear weapons. He had a mechanical knack for it, and his team worked well together. They were trained as a unit to disassemble the warheads, how to slice the pits with the water saw. The pits were the plutonium grapefruit size core, with the 'Magic' explosive surrounding it. Once you got the hang of it, the process was do-able. It demanded method, rechecking your previous steps with a patient and analytical mind – Clyde had all of that. However, Clyde still yearned for more money. It was a demanding and responsible job, and management continually told them that they had an awesome responsibility. "Ring-a-ding-ding," as Clyde liked to say when he was feeling flippant. He has heard about duty and responsibility this-and-that for years, and, while duty and responsibility did put food on the table, duty and responsibility did not buy Mabel weekend jaunts to Las Vegas.

What Clyde did was give his financial reward situation 'a big think', which is Texas talk for giving a problem a long and serious analysis. On Clyde and Mabel's annual vacation to Las Vegas, Clyde flew on to Los Angeles under a different name. He went to the Pantex library to obtain the Soviet consulate address in Los Angeles. He didn't know how to contact the right person. He checked into a hotel near the consulate, which is downtown, near Chinatown. Clyde walked to the consulate and spotted a nearby coffee shop. He sat down near a window where he could see the consulate, ordered a coffee, and waited. He noted that at around noon, a few people left the consulate, and at about 1:00 p.m., they returned, mostly as a group. _Lunch._ He returned to his hotel.

The next day he again sat in the same coffee shop. When the group returned from lunch to the consulate, he followed, joined the rear of the group, and entered the building with them. On this day, consular surveillance didn't notice the extra man. Sometimes the intelligence business was slight of hand, and sometimes just plain luck. For Clyde, it was proving to be a combination of dumb luck and a remake of all the James Bond movies he'd watched in his life.

As soon as the group was inside and dispersed to their offices, Clyde stood alone in the lobby. Security approached and asked him what he wanted.

"I need a visa application."

"At the desk."

Clyde walked to the desk and asked for the application. The woman at the desk gave him a form. Clyde handed the woman an envelope. Inside the envelope were some Pantex photos of a warhead, an old warhead, but enough to wet their appetite. The note said, "I have information to sell."

The woman made a phone call, and a man came to the desk. He opened the envelope, and scanned the contents.

"Will you show me the way out a side door?"

"I understand. Follow me."

"I have no time, I need to leave quickly."

"Okay. Where can we contact you?"

"I'm at the Stardust in Vegas for five days. I play a little blackjack now and then."

Clyde was shown the door, and it closed quietly behind him.

There was much to learn from Clyde's visit. The comment about the Stardust and blackjack told the Soviet Intelligence officer that Clyde was a risk taker. The photograph told him that Clyde had access to important details. Inside of five minutes, another agent had been recruited. Most of the Soviet Union's best sources were 'recruited' in that manner, literally dropping into the Soviets' arms.

American surveillance wasn't on their toes that day, either, and missed Clyde as he departed the consulate. Clyde walked around the corner, and up the street to a nearby shopping mall. He sauntered in, walked out another exit, and caught a taxi curbside. The taxi dropped him off a couple blocks from his hotel. He entered the hotel by the delivery door, packed his bag, and returned by cab to Los Angeles International Airport. Using a second alias at LAX, Clyde paid for his ticket in cash, and flew back to Las Vegas.

The deed was done.

Clyde and his wife spent a couple of days in Vegas, ate some great food, saw a couple of shows, and waited. He thought that they might send someone sooner rather than later, and they did. The woman who was at the desk in the consulate approached him as he was playing Blackjack at one of the tables in the Stardust. She had different hair color, but he recognized her.

"Hello, nice to see you. Do you have a moment?"

"Sure,"

He tipped the dealer, and left for the lounge. The woman carried a Gucci shopping bag with some bulk to it. The lounge shows made the bar a constant hive of activity, people going in and out, so the couple were not noticed as they sat down. Less than 20 minutes after the conversation, Clyde Riddle became a traitor to his country.

"This bag has certain equipment and some other items you will need. What is your room number?

"236, in the annex near the pool."

"OK, in five minutes I will knock on the door. Okay?"

"Okay."

Five minutes later, the woman went to Clyde's room, softly knocked, gave him the bag, and left. Excitedly he opened the bag, and inside were instructions, some transmitting equipment, and $1000 in cash. The cash was in 20's and worn. Standard KGB practice is to pay in old bills. Regardless of denomination, new money draws attention; used money doesn't.

Morris is Clyde Riddle's Soviet Intelligence code name.

Morris has been supplying documents for two years. Mabel still buys her clothes at J.C. Penney's, and Clyde still drives the same car. But Mabel has fancy perfumes and often jaunts to Vegas for weekends. Clyde has a new engine under the hood of his older Chevy, and plays Blackjack as often as he likes.

****

### Onward Ho

Dmitry's rare meeting with Morris was perilous. But, Moscow advised him Morris was not under suspicion. Their agent inside the American Security apparatus assured them of this fact.

Late in the evening on April 20th, Dmitry arrived in Amarillo. He stayed at the Rodeo Motel, and on the morning of the 21st, drove within sight of the meeting place on Amarillo Boulevard. The El Rancho Bar and Grill was closed at 7:00 a.m., and no one would be around for another two hours. He parked two blocks away and waited for Morris to arrive. From where he was parked, he could see if Morris was followed. Morris pulled into the parking lot behind the bar and nervously read the _Amarillo Times_. Morris frequently checked his rear view mirror, and impatiently waited. Dmitry drove around for a while to spot any suspicious vehicles. After 10 minutes Dmitry was satisfied that Morris was alone.

Dmitry pulled alongside the driver's side of Morris' vehicle. Morris' face matched the photograph he had seen in Moscow. Dmitry made sure that Morris's hands were visible.

He rolled down the window, and asked him, "Does Interstate 40 go west to California?"

The man replied, "Yes, but make sure you check the signs."

Now that prearranged sign and countersign were exchanged, Morris handed Dmitry an _Amarillo Times_ newspaper. Inside was a large manila envelope. After looking at the contents of the envelope, Dmitry handed Clyde the payoff envelope. The following conversation then ensued.

"You asked for this meeting. It is dangerous. What is the problem?"

"I have provided you with what you want for a long time. The world is changing. I want to end this."

"It is not that easy. We need more information. Improvements and changes occur all the time. We must keep up to date. Think of your position at work."

"They are becoming more security conscious. They are checking everything now. I must be careful. It's not that easy to get stuff out now. The lunch box you gave me is worn out. The bottom panel was showing paint scratches. I had to put a rotten banana peel in the bottom to get the guards to avoid looking any further. I can't find the paint color to cover the scratches from the panel opening and closing."

"I will see you get a new lunch box. We want you to continue your important work. You are paid well. You are a valuable asset. We will contact you by radio. Use the normal schedule to listen."

"No promises. This may be my last contact. I have to go. I am expected at a pancake breakfast."

"Remember, we depend on you."

Dmitry's words and phrases were carefully designed by GRU language experts in Moscow, and delivered exactly as instructed. He was briefed to listen for certain inflections in Morris's voice. Dmitry was to instill in him a need to maintain the relationship. His work was an important cornerstone of peace between our two countries. However, Morris didn't tell him that he would continue.

"It's over," Dmitry whispered as he drove away. Morris had what he wanted, and was getting nervous and scared. Dmitry would advise Moscow to not push it.

Morris drove away as Dmitry carefully watched from his rear view mirror. He placed the envelope in his GRU case, and slid it back under the seat. He would hide it later. Dmitry went to a convenience store and purchased some cold tablets and cough syrup. He wasn't sweating, but also wasn't feeling well. The two-day drive and the meeting had left him very tired and a bit on edge. Dmitry drove to Interstate 40 west. He wanted to be out of Texas as soon as possible. Wonderful invention, these freeways. America was something. He headed west toward Albuquerque.

What the hell are pancakes? Oh yes, Блины.

An hour and a half later, he was across the Texas/New Mexico border.

****

### The Heat is Up

April 22, at the next meeting between Army CI and Vassily, three new faces were present, their presence designed to keep Vassily a little nervous. They sat at the far end of the table and said nothing. Vassily privately dubbed them the three stooges.

Vassily blurted, "What's happening with getting my family out of the Soviet Union?"

"We are working hard on it. We're about 50% there. We believe it will be within a few short months. There is timing and sequence. We need to plan it carefully."

Vassily said, "There was a KGB investigating team at the embassy last month. They left two days ago. They were in everything. I survived. But they suspect there is an American agent in the embassy."

"We understand. You are clear, we already know that."

Jim continued, "Vassily, we need to move on a little. You were going to give us more information about Soviet Intelligence drop locations. Can you tell us more?"

After a long pause, Vassily said, "Okay, there's a drop behind the toilet in Bob's Barbeque, Atlantic City, in the men's restroom. It's a plastic container wedged between the tank and the wall."

"And?"

"Bethseda, Maryland. The Mahalo Hawaiian Restaurant. Behind the light fixture in the men's room."

"Which light fixture?"

"The one above the lavatory mirror!"

"OK, ok, thanks."

A long silent pause ensued. Everyone was catching their breath a little. Finally, one of the three stooges, an older man, said in Russian: "Vassily, Мы делаем все, что мы можем. Вы должны быть терпеливыми. (We are doing everything we can. You must be patient.)

Vassily glanced at them with scant interest. Mr. Hard and Cold kept the edge. The ever-present stopwatch kept ticking. Vassily and Jim were waiting for each other to say something. It was a long wait.

Finally, Jim stood up and said, "I think we are done for the day."

Vassily passively nodded in agreement. The older man said nothing.

Vassily returned to the embassy compound at 10:30 a.m. He felt certain his compatriots were going to get suspicious. _I have to reduce these meetings for a while._ He continued to look everyone in the eye, and maintained his demeanor with Lieutenant Colonel Rostov.

Do not give them the slightest reason to suspect anything.

Back at the safe house, the older man, Major Robert Lee, and the rest of the team sat around the table and reviewed the videotape of the meeting.

Jim said, "Sir, this guy is getting antsy."

Major Lee said, "Yes he is. I think we need to push things along in Moscow. The people at the agency need to get their covert operatives to scout the address, obtain details on the family's weekly schedule, and prepare an exfil plan ASAP."

"Yes, sir. I agree. Thank you."

Later that week, Major Lee drove to CIA Headquarters outside Langley, Virginia. He reported to the European Covert Operations Center, where Joe Smathers, Covert Operations agent, was waiting. Cordial and correct pleasantries were exchanged.

Mr. Smathers said, "The woman and children live in an apartment in Moscow's Lystina district. They have relatives in Leningrad. She, as a member of a KGB family, can visit her parents in Leningrad without causing suspicion. They tend to trust them a little more, not much, but a little. That will get her and her kids out of Moscow and away from prying eyes."

"Sounds good."

"After she is in Leningrad, our people will be better able to deal with the escape. But here is the tricky part. We need to approach Svetlana and make her believe that we are sent from her husband. We must have an identifying phrase, or maybe something personal from him. She must be made to believe we are not KGB. This is the critical part. Tell your man to come up with something and we'll go from there. But she must believe us, and be willing to follow our instructions to the letter. What do you think?"

Major Lee replied, "The plan is moving along. Good."

Robert thought that at the next meeting with 'Anvil', they could delve into a recognition signal. All in all, so far the plan sounds good.

"Vassily, we have a plan to get Svetlana and the children out. But, your wife must believe we were sent by you," Jim McClain said to Vassily during a brief meeting.

Vassily thought about this for a couple of minutes.

He responded, "Early in our marriage, we had a small black dog named Sasha. He was a Scottish terrier. He had a habit of growling when he wanted a treat. Only Svetlana and I would know this."

Another long silence. Would this work? Would this be enough?

"Okay, I think you should write a note to Svetlana and we will deliver it."

Vassily wrote the note, and gave it to Jim, who read it over.

"She must realize this comes from you Vassily, and no one else."

"She will."

Major Lee thought that 'Anvil' might have reached the edge of emotional tolerance with this business. Anvil had lived 15 years as an unfeeling KGB operative. You never knew what such people were capable of. Never. The Major made an appointment with Joe Smathers.

Major Lee brought Vassily's note to the appointment. The note would be hand delivered to Svetlana by a woman operative. Both the Major and Smathers agreed that Moscow was a dangerous place to approach the residence of a KGB officer. They decided the visit to her parents in Leningrad offered the best opportunity to deliver the note to Svetlana without exposing the operative. The location was out of the center of Soviet repression. The visit to her parents was a yearly affair. Both Joe Smathers and Major Lee agree that Leningrad would be their best, and, probably, their only opportunity.

****

### The Pitch

Vassily sent another letter by Soviet embassy mail to Svetlana. He knows that the KGB will read it. It has an obscure reference to enjoy her visit with her parents in Leningrad. Vassily's comment about the trip made it stick in Svetlana's mind. The KGB read it with passing interest, Svetlana read it with greater interest, and thought, What's going on here? Has he finally seen the light?

She called her parents in Leningrad, and said that she was bringing the children to visit soon. Svetlana's mother, Valentina, was looking forward to seeing the grandchildren again, but she felt a premonition, dark and disturbing. After all, she was not a fool. As a mother, she would help her daughter and her grandchildren as much as possible.

Svetlana's father, Gregor, a retired KGB officer, ignored the unexpected visit. Well, not so much unexpected as merely early.

Ignorance is bliss for him.

The changes in his country deeply depressed him. He spent most of his time in the bedroom, drinking in darkness.

****

### A Story Within a Story

John Parent, PhD is employed at the Los Alamos National Laboratory just outside Santa Fe, New Mexico. He has been employed at that location since earning his doctorate in Physics from MIT 12 years before.

In the summer before his senior year, the scholarship administrator at MIT learned of John's financial plight, and, based on his IQ, his academic performance to date, and Italian heritage, replaced his worn out Volvo with a newer Pontiac, provided a one time clothing allowance of $1500, and paid for a furnished apartment – fully paid for the remainder of John's nine-month undergraduate study. However, the administrator insisted that he keep his hair trimmed to manageable levels, shave regularly, and wear shoes other than black canvas sneakers.

John finished his Masters in Physics, and pursued a Doctorate in Nuclear Physics at MIT.

Resolution of the nagging implosion theory problem came to him at a dinner party one night at a friend's house. These were elegant parties in Santa Fe. Plates were served on plates, with ice cream in a small goblet standing on the top plate. John was starring at his plate when it came to him – it being the implosion theory resolution. The ice cream goblet was the tip off. Sort of like Szilard, and the understanding of nuclear fission at a traffic light in London. Or Newton's falling apples. Food matters to genius.

In 1968, when John was a graduate student at MIT, he took a trip to New York. He wore a rented tux, and went to the Metropolitan to see the opera. He loved Italian opera. He happened to meet, quite by accident, a low level Soviet diplomat named Mikhail from the Soviet Mission to the UN. They both liked opera, and got to know one another well. John, who long heard stories about the behind-the-scenes drama of opera, purposely went to the opera to be recruited. He used to wonder if they would ever make a move.

Now, years later, John provides nuclear design specifications to the Soviet Communist government. He makes sure that the Soviet government keeps up with the Americans. In his mind, it's only fair, a way of maintaining balance. Besides, the money is extremely good, and he deserved it, or so he thought.

****

### Another Brick in the Wall

April 22 was the first day of John's semi-annual trip to Albuquerque. He borrowed his wife's blue coupe, and, very early in the morning, drove to the city. He was careful to take clothing that was much larger and did not fit him, dark clothes, a gray Irish brim hat to hide his face, along with a black baseball hat, and a pair of black canvas sneakers. Mikhail had told him that oversize clothing makes a man hard to describe and dark clothing made it difficult to see him at all. It's like looking at a lump.

He drove to Albuquerque, a little over 100 miles, and exited at Old Town, just off Interstate 40. At 6:15 a.m., he parked the car three blocks away from the alley. John put on the oversize shirt and pants over the clothes he was wearing. He added black canvas shoes, and, a black baseball hat. This time, he left the gray hat in the car. It was very quiet, almost too quiet, just a few minutes before sunrise. Wait a couple of seconds. Listen. It was almost surreal.

He walked slowly down the sidewalk, stopped at a familiar alley, and carefully checked his surroundings. He saw no one. John put on a pair of leather driving gloves, and pulled the brim of his hat down over his face. Quickly, he walked into the alley. At the other end was the ever present garbage dumpster. He bent down, reached for a brick in the wall, and removed it. A hollowed out space on the reverse side of the brick revealed a black plastic container. He removed the container, opened the lid, and placed some folded papers inside. John closed the lid, reinserted the container in the brick, and carefully slid the brick back into place. After walking to the street side of the dumpster, he rubbed a small pink chalk mark on it. If someone were looking for it, they could just see the mark. Again, he scanned the area. He turned right, and walked a circuitous route back to his car. He never saw anybody, only a few parked cars. He quickly got in his car, and drove off in the opposite direction from whence he had come. John pulled over a few blocks away. He removed the pants, shoes, and shirt, balled them up into a bundle, and tossed it into a trashcan. He was to make the drop on that day within a certain time frame, and he did it. He drove back to his home in suburban Santa Fe, and slid back into bed with his wife. She was still sleeping on this weekend morning.

John Parent did everything as he was trained to do. However, he did not see a man under a tarp, sleeping at the far end of the alley. The homeless man, awakened by the noise of the brick and the shuffle of John's feet, saw a dark shape place something in the wall. He stumbled over to the brick when his wits, however foggy, were about him. He removed the brick. No money or drugs, but maybe the papers were worth something. Suddenly, over his shoulder, a shadow appeared.

****

### All Downhill From Here

Dmitry was to be in place by 6:00 a.m. to see who would be loading the drop. He must fit the description provided by Moscow. Dmitry used his field glasses to confirm and it matched the man in ill-fitting clothes. Dmitry walked to the alley entrance and saw the chalk mark on the dumpster. Pulling on his gloves, he completely erased the mark. Quickly, he walked to the other side of the dumpster, and came face to face with a scruffy man holding a brick in one hand and some papers in the other. Dmitry hit him in the solar plexus. The man dropped like a rock. Dmitry grabbed the papers, ran to the alley entrance, and made a quick left out of sight. He returned to his car, and drove to the highway heading west into Arizona. He believed that he was safe, however the drop was burned. They would find another in due course.

****

### Just a Brick Away

Dmitry believed he was clear. However, Agent Culpepper had a video camera installed over a month ago. It was placed across the street on a telephone pole, and automatically turned on when someone entered. A pager beeped after the camera had been on for 15 seconds or more. This Sunday morning, it beeped three times. The Agent on duty notified Brett, and he raced down to the office to see the video. Rewind and play. Rewind and play. He saw the entire incident, from the load to a man falling to the ground and someone running out of the alley. Brett and the duty agent quickly drove to the Old Town alley. On the ground was a hollowed out brick. Carefully, he picked it up to check for prints.

Searching the area, he found a homeless man leaning against a building.

"Are you okay?"

"Guy hit me man. For no reason. I wasn't doing anything."

"Tell me what happened," said Brett with irritation in his voice.

"I was sleeping, and, all of a sudden, I heard a scraping noise. I turned over and saw a man put something in a brick, and put it back. I kept real quiet. After he left, I got up and pried the brick out. It wasn't drugs, or anything, just papers. I was lookin' at them when another guy came up real sudden like, and hit me. Everything went black for a while. I woke up and ran away. Then you found me.

"Okay, okay, stay here. I'll get someone to come and take you to the hospital."

"Thanks."

Brett thought, _A dead drop, I was right. Ha!_

Brett and SAIC Doug Clarke reviewed the tape. Both men were white, somewhere about six feet tall and 180 to 210 pounds. Only 10,000 people in New Mexico fit that description. However, the video camera clearly captured the second man's face as he ran out of the alley.

On the road to California, Dmitry Padorin was reflecting on the past, and his future.

I've been trained to do my duty, keep those blinders on, to look straight ahead. 'Ignore the American poison – it's seductive and vile. They are well on their way to oblivion. It's only a matter of time. Hold on until they are weak enough to collapse.' Bah. If that is true, why are we having serious problems and the Americans are holding their own? Why are we stealing secrets from them, instead of protecting our secrets from them? Do we have anything they want? Have the Sovietologists been to an American grocery store lately? Their philosophy doesn't hold water when it comes to waiting in line for toilet paper. The Americans have Kleenex. Soviets still use handkerchiefs! God, I wish this virus would go away. But we aren't allowed God, are we? No God; no Kleenex. Maybe without God there can be no Kleenex.

Dmitry unrolled another few sheets of toilet paper from the roll on the seat beside him. He blew his nose with one hand and steered with the other.

The Albuquerque drop was supposed to be routine. That location was carefully scouted, and had been used for over five years. What went wrong? He took another cold tablet. It helped a little. He pulled off at a rest stop, and radioed a message to Moscow that the drop had been unloaded, but there were problems. No time to elaborate, just a few chosen codes to advise them. He continued on to Flagstaff, and rented a motel room for the night. It was 6:00 p.m. It had been a long 18-hour day, and Monday, April 23, was on the way to becoming today.

Back in Albuquerque, Brett Culpepper studied the suspect's description, and noted that his appearance was similar to a suspect in D.C. A few days ago, an Army CI Agent saw a handoff to a six feet tall white man in a Georgetown bookstore. The description was very close, particularly the hair color. Could this be the same man who was in the alley? Was he traveling west? Certainly, he would have skedaddled out of Albuquerque fast after the botched pickup in the alley.

Brett wired a still of the alley man's photo to Jim McClain, and after a brief conversation about the bookstore episode, Jim made plane reservations for the earliest flight to Albuquerque. The Bookstore contact and the alleyway contact seemed to be the same man. Why?

Brett requested the Arizona Highway Patrol and Flagstaff Police to be on the lookout for a tall white male, dark black hair, driving west, possibly with east coast license plates. The man could be traveling alone. Make and model of car unknown. The request was marked as urgent, and the Flagstaff Police detailed their patrolmen to check all the motels in their area.

That morning, Dmitry washed his car at a self-serve car wash, ate breakfast at a local pancake restaurant, and drove west on the Interstate. His Citizens Band radio and the trucker chatter sped him along. He felt a need to be on the road away from Flagstaff, and Arizona, as quickly as possible.

****

### Oh, What a Web....

Brett Culpepper read a vehicle report from a Flagstaff patrolman the next morning. The officer had seen an East Coast licensed vehicle at a motel on his beat. The car was a gray Honda sedan with North Carolina plates. He ran the plate number and the results were no wants, no warrants. No criminal record for the owner, William R. Blandd.

Brett requested Flagstaff send a detective to the motel. He received details:

White male, 32 – 38 years old, approximately 5'10' - 6', 180 – 200 pounds with jet-black hair. Speaks English with a New York accent. Carries a North Carolina driver's license. Casually dressed. Landscape supply sales rep. Pays in cash. Name on the register: Bill Blandd.

Brett Culpepper flew to Flagstaff that morning, and interviewed the motel clerk. He showed him the picture of the suspect.

The motel clerk said, "Yep, that's the guy."

The Arizona Highway Patrol was advised to secure the whereabouts of the car, but to not stop or crowd him in any way. They were happy to assist, and, if the car was identified, would hand off responsibility to the California Highway Patrol. The file on this 'now suspect' driver was growing rapidly.

Several stills of the suspect were forwarded to FBI Headquarters to try to obtain the suspect's name and nationality.

By this time, Dmitry was well on his way to California.

A uniformed officer was dispatched to Bill Blandd's residence in North Carolina. No one was home. A neighbor advised the officer that Bill told him he was going to New York to spend his vacation with a girlfriend. He didn't know when Bill would be back. The neighbor had Bill's business card, and gave it to the officer. The officer looked through the windows and noted the living room looked like it had been ransacked. Burglary thought the cop. No car in the garage. How did Blandd get to New York? A detective contacted his employer and he said that Bill would be back in two weeks. He was in New York someplace. Yes, he had his own car, a gray Honda four door sedan, for business trips, and they paid mileage. He had been gone for almost ten days. East Coast Golf & Landscape Equipment didn't know how to contact him. The detective reported back to Brett.

"Leave it alone for now. We'll find him, or talk to him when he returns from the Big Apple."

Blandd's driver's license photo was compared with the video still, but Bill Blandd definitely was not the man in Flagstaff. Mr. Blandd was a little fuller in the face and had light brown hair. A NAC (National Agency Check) reveals he was an immigrant from Poland. He has lived in the U.S. for 10 years. The INS photograph was digitized and passed to FBI Washington Headquarters.

Brett thought the suspect looked almost identical to a man who was on death row in Arizona. The inmate, Gregg Jacobs, had been convicted of killing two men in a bar fight some time ago, but Brett couldn't recall the details. An odd resemblance. He would keep this in mind.

Meanwhile, Dmitry Padorin was homeward bound. In a few hours, he would cross the Arizona/California border, and spend some time in 'Southern Cal'. He was looking forward to the last part of this assignment, which would reap great rewards in Moscow: a bigger apartment, maybe a promotion. Even though things were not going well at home, he thought the new technology he stole from the Americans would help the Soviet Union. He believed his country would soon catch up with American nuclear technology and the playing field would be leveled again.

How many times have these countries switched between rivalry and friendship since WWI? And why is it that with every skirmish in a developing country, the Americans grow stronger – no matter their losses, while we Soviets weaken? Especially now, in Afghanistan.... Bah! My country's Vietnam War! Fools! Dostoevsky had it right – we, all of us, American, Soviet – we are all underground men dreaming golden dreams...willfulness is more pleasing than any kind of advantage – there is no reason or science in war. No resolution...war has no winners; revenge, no reward.

Dmitry sneezed, and reached for another strip of toilet paper.

There is no scratching all of life's itches. In the Underground, two times two makes four, even without my will. Free choice – Bah! There is only choosing between honor and toilet paper. Honor will not scratch my itch....

Dmitry crossed the California border by noon, and continued west, to his destination, Santa Barbara. The gray Honda was one of thousands on this stretch of Interstate 40. The traffic was constant and the speed limit was 70 MPH. After awhile, all of the cars tended to blend together. KGB knew this. Three million gray Hondas in the U.S. meant that Dmitry's had an excellent chance of being overlooked – if it was being looked for. And they were right. Brett Culpepper's men, between gas stops, restaurants, and millions of gray Hondas pacing themselves bumper-to-bumper along hi-density freeway, missed any sightings of Dmitry.

Finding Dmitry wasn't high priority for the CHP, as there were fatal accidents to contend that day. Dmitry, and the GRU lucked out, escaping American CI's net. Brett lobbied to get a higher priority with the CHP, but doing this took all day to accomplish. It was now 6:00 p.m. Dmitry pulled into a Motel Six in Santa Barbara for a three-day stay. He needed to rest for a day, then buy a boat and motor for his voyage home.

With no reported sightings, Brett and his compatriots searched for the vehicle further west. The suspect had slipped the net. Brett issued an 'emergency attempt to locate' the vehicle for all California local and state law enforcement agencies. He could be at any motel by now.

_We need a break in this case. Someone, please, give us a break. Who is this man? If he's a spy, exactly which side is he spying for? The Russians, the Poles, the Czechs, the Chinese? Whoever he is, he's slick and professional,_ Brett thought, while feeling almost a kinship with the man. _How long have these people been doing this?_ He felt a chill when he put the facts together in his head. _We have at least one, possibly several major leaks in Albuquerque, and this has probably been going on for years._

****

### Almost Home

The next day, April 27th, Dmitry, ignorant of his pursuers, felt confident that he had eluded all interest. He was at least 875 miles away from the last encounter. _I am almost home_. That morning, he found a boat dealer, Pacific Boats. He made a deal for a used 18-foot open seagoing boat with a 50-horsepower motor and a trailer. He paid $6200 in cash, plus tax. He told the dealer to tune the motor and fill the tank with fuel. He was actually feeling closer to home. Even his cold virus was gone. _I am almost home_. He planned to pick up the boat and motor late the next day. He also had a trailer hitch installed on the car, another $400. Dmitry drove north, up Highway 1, a few miles, and stopped at several nurseries to pass out some landscaping brochures. His real purpose was to look for a launch site for the boat. The Isla Vista Park, a public park with a launch site, was about fifteen miles north. Several boat launches were recommended to him, but this one offered the best access to the ocean, and it was small and secluded. One man could easily launch a boat, and then park the trailer out of view.

_I am almost home_.

Then again, maybe not. Not only was he standing on the beach near the Pacific Ocean, he was standing on the edge of a major decision. The major was no fool. He saw a land of opportunity all around him. He knew the political system of the Soviet Union, the freedom in the United States. He didn't understand what was happening in his country. Why was it falling apart?

When he returns, he will talk to Natasha. Perhaps, they can make a decision. He can't defect now; he has his family to think of. But how and when to make that momentous and dangerous move, he didn't know.

At the Isla Vista Park, he found a sheltered parking space, and set up the transceiver. He made a mental list of his coded words, made contact with Moscow, and the following coded message was sent.

"Completed all drops, and contacts as assigned. New Mexico drop burned. Delivered all packages to contacts. Transportation arranged. Will make water rendezvous as scheduled on 90.04.29 or 90.04.30. Arrange car pickup."

A local agent would dispose of the trailer. A moving van would transport the car back to North Carolina. The agent had been instructed to sanitize the car. Nothing remained to betray its prior use.

Perfect.

Work was done. Early in the afternoon, he stopped at a local roadside cafe and ate lunch. He had a hamburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake at an In-N-Out burger joint, its white uniformed attendants spotless, their paper hats perfectly folded, their hands perfectly clean, all of them forever young.

What a country. Everything is rush, rush, and rush. An endless supply of toilet paper.

He finished his lunch, returned to Highway 1, and drove south back to Santa Barbara.

California Highway Patrolman Mark Matthews was just finishing his shift. He passed a vehicle with North Carolina plates, RTG 487. Bored, he called the plate number in. Advised that unless a violation occurred, he was to stay away from the vehicle, CHP Matthews discreetly followed the car to its destination, Motel Six on Pacific Avenue in Santa Barbara. The Santa Barbara FBI Field Office was notified.

_I am almost home_.

****

### Talk About the Balloon Going Up

The National Security Advisor had an interest in this continuing "case?" and the FBI Liaison office at the White House was notified. FBI Command Center in Washington had a team assembled, communication links were set up, and surveillance teams were positioned around the motel.

It was the afternoon of April 27th.

Dmitry will pick up the boat and trailer on the 28th, and spend that night in his car at the Isla Vista Park. Just after midnight, he will launch the boat. With his GRU bag, and its precious contents securely tucked away, he will silently motor into the Pacific for about 50 miles. He has his compass, and knows the local ocean conditions. The seas were predicted to be calm with no rain forecasted. The boat was seaworthy, and built for ocean fishing. No problem.

But all it takes is one to blow a mission.

****

### Final Days at Winslow State Prison

Gregg Jacobs was living his last days at the Arizona State Prison for murdering two people in a knife fight at a Phoenix bar. After eight years of appeals by the ACLU and his attorney, Jacobs was to die by lethal injection on April 30th. His wife Alicia stood by his side throughout the ordeal. People remarked how loyal and devoted she was to him. His only son, Matt, now 6, was sheltered by his mother from the legal and public nightmare. Notoriety had long ago faded from media view. Greg Jacobs' case was just another story of a blue-collar man trying to make it in a white-collar world; another story inside the story.

Not able to deal with the stock market collapse and the aftermath of 1980s corporate greed, Greg Jacobs was squeezed and finally disposed of by his white-collar brothers. How could he know that cheap PhD immigrants from India and Pakistan would replace the group who had displaced him, and who would join him in the next economic collapse? Discouraged, and shamed by losing his means of survival in the 20th century, Greg Jacobs became a frustrated and angry man. And that, more than often than not, leads to drinking in darkness. But Greg preferred the neon beer signs and steady glow of chromed taps in the reflection of a crystal mug, accompanied, of course, by all the shots of Jack his money could buy. Commodity, Demand, Disposal – the story within the story of stocks, the cradle-to-grave business philosophy that sunk Gregg Jacobs in the bottom of a shot glass.

This led to a bar fight between Gregg and two drunken Latinos in 1984. He told police investigators that the Latinos started baiting him with insults about his manhood, and his mother's heritage. One thing led to another. One of the Latinos pulled a knife, and former U.S. Army Ranger Gregg Jacobs promptly disarmed him. The other man jumped Gregg, and that led to two dead Mexicans on the barroom floor. Gregg claimed there was a witness who saw the whole thing, but had vanished. Maybe it was just the scene reflected in the mirror behind the bar that had caught Greg's eye in a moment of lucidity between self-protection and pure rage. The bartender hid underneath the bar during the fight, but he did say that he saw a fourth man. The man disappeared shortly after the fight, and the police were unable to confirm his account.

****

### What Now?

Brett was on the phone almost continuously with FBI and CIA Headquarters. Email technology was as yet untested, but proving itself a great asset.

Brett said, "OK, who's this man?"

The CIA man on the other end replied, "His name is Padorin, Dmitry Padorin. Soviet Army GRU Intelligence Agent. His last known assignment was the Soviet Embassy in Vienna, Austria as the Assistant Political Attaché."

Brett knew Vienna's reputation – more spies per square foot than any other place in the world. In Vienna, they trip over one another.

Brett asked, "Anything else?"

"Yes, He was a Red Army Spesnatz commando, and experienced in hand to hand combat. He knows his business, so watch him closely. We are still getting information in from Europe and from Fort Huachuca. They will have more on the psychology side."

"Okay, thanks. Talk to you later."

Brett briefs the other agents in the room. Brett estimates that Major Padorin is a faithful Communist Party member. He wonders though, is this man human, too, or just another Commie gangster.

Brett Culpepper believes he's getting to know this man fairly well. Case history, notes, the video, and Dmitry's modus operandi (MO) were firmly in his mind. Because of this, Washington put him in command of the operation. This time, they want no mistakes. He was to communicate directly with the FBI command center in Washington, and Deputy Director Rogers. Because of the San Diego incident, David Hopkins was out of the picture. It was 3:00 p.m. on April 27th. Jim McClain had arrived, and he would lead the Army CI contingent. He reported directly to Brett.

Surveillance remarked how casual Dmitry was. He went shopping, and bought perfume, a book, and a toy car. He walked the boardwalk by the Pacific, and looked out to sea. He seemed to be waiting for something or someone. He even bought an ice cream cone. Maybe this was a signal for a meeting.

Brett emphasized, "Leave him alone. He's paid for three days, and he has another night, possible two at the motel."

Washington made the assessment that the reason he was spending time at the 'beach' was that he was checking the sea conditions and the weather. Maybe this was a prelude to his escape.

Brett did not want a repeat of the San Diego disaster with Charlie Waters. They arrested Charlie too soon. He clamed up, and they got, and were getting, absolutely nothing. We aren't going to make that mistake again. This time, Brett was in charge, and Brett was patient. They would wait. His fellow agents were getting anxious, like hungry wolves. He gathered his fifteen agents together. Time for some motivation.

"Good morning gentlemen. Could I have your attention for a moment?"

"Thank you. Our man is a Soviet commando and experienced spy. He is a hand-to-hand combat expert, and has extensive espionage experience. His name is Padorin, first name Dmitry. He is a Major in the GRU. There is more on the board. We will adopt a wait and see attitude. He has extensive counter surveillance training, so KEEP YOUR DISTANCE. I will have more later. Thank you."

Following his walk by the beach, Dmitry returned to the motel at about 5:00 p.m., showered, and walked to a nearby restaurant, the Pig 'N Pit, for another barbecue rib dinner. Within a few minutes, an FBI man and woman team entered the restaurant and ordered. They sat within earshot of Dmitry. They reported that he spoke very little with the waitress, ate his meal, and walked back to the motel.

Army CI estimated that, because of his time spent at the beach, he was planning to exfiltrate by sea. They suspected that he would need an ocean going vessel of some kind.

Brett led another FBI team to check the local boat dealers. That afternoon, he talked to the owner of Pacific Boats. He was shown a photograph of Dmitry, and asked if he recognized him.

"Yeah, this guy bought a used 18-foot ocean sport fishing boat. He wanted the motor tuned and fueled. The boat should be ready to be picked up at 5:00 p.m. on April 28th."

Brett asked, "Did he say why he wanted the boat?'

"Yes, he said that he wanted it ready for the yellow tail tuna season. That starts in two days."

"OK, thanks." _Let's see now. A GRU Assistant Political Attaché infiltrates into the U.S., unloaded one dead drop, made a possible contact in a Georgetown bookstore, unloaded another dead drop in Albuquerque, and then drove to Santa Barbara, California to catch the first day of yellow tail tuna fishing. Yeah, right._

On his last day in America, Dmitry again strolled down the boardwalk. Not actually a boardwalk, it was made of concrete. More of a sidewalk. But this was California, and nothing is as it appears. He found a bench, sat down, and reflected on his future. In his mind's eye, he reread the graffiti on the Kremlin wall. The message had lost all hope. All the color was gone. All that remained was black or white.

I can stay in America, the land of toilet paper and Kleenex. I can disappear here, and get them out later. But, no, that won't work. The GRU will know something is wrong. They'll know I've defected. Natasha will be moved to a labor camp, or worse. Our children...I am almost home. No GRU conveyor for me, but most assuredly a conveyor for them. Three lives for one. Not a pleasant thought.

His nose began to run.

Damned virus.

FBI Command agreed that the suspect was planning to exfil from the U.S., probably on the 28th. They predicted the rendezvous would be by Soviet submarine. The U.S. Navy was briefed about the probable exfil scenario. Later, the Navy's SOSUS reported to the team that a silent Soviet sub was patrolling in circle about 200 miles offshore of Southern California. They had difficulty hearing it. This was a bit unusual for Soviet subs, but it also could be a new and quieter boat. Brett and Army CI believed that the suspect's clandestine mission was complete, and that he was waiting for nightfall to leave the U.S.

It was 9:30 a.m.

In constant communication with the command center in Washington, the FBI was astonished at the time Dmitry was spending on the boardwalk. U.S. Army Psychological Warfare (Psy War) was convinced that he was thinking something through. No agent will wait hours for a contact to appear. It's much too dangerous. Santa Barbara was advised to give him rope, but only Brett Culpepper could make the decision on when and where to move. Dmitry isn't going anywhere until he gets that boat. Sometimes, a potential defector needs a push in the right direction.

The surveillance teams were watching him closely. They knew he would pick up the boat, motor, and trailer at 5 p.m., Saturday, April 28th.

I am almost home.

Dmitry's rendezvous date with K137 was scheduled for April 30th 1990, in the morning before daybreak, 100 miles offshore. He had purchased a GPS device. He would motor to the exact rendezvous point, scuttle the boat, and board the sub.

You must make up your mind soon. What are you going to do, Dmitry?

****

### An Appointment with Destiny

On Friday morning, Dmitry sat on a boardwalk bench and watched the goings-on. He was an experienced GRU people-watcher. He observed fifty-year old women joggers in pink warm-up suits, an elderly couple walking slowly and holding hands, and a pair of teenage girls giggling as they walked by. Now, at 10:30, activity had slowed.

A tall man, walking a brown collie husky on a leash, came down the walk. At least this guy wore blue jeans and not a pink warm-up suit. The man stopped just before the bench near the railing and peered out to sea. "Beautiful day, isn't it?" The voice was not threatening.

"Yes, it is." The stranger had broken the ice; Dmitry felt he shouldn't brush him off.

The man asked, "What are you reading?"

" _War and Peace_." Keep it short, Dmitry thought. Don't encourage him. Okay so far.

"Jake needs a rest. Can we share your bench for a moment?"

"Sure, it's a free country." Dmitry gestured toward the far side of the bench. Sounds of the surf, and now, a rapid heart beat inside Dmitry.

The man led the dog over and sat down.

Fifteen years with the Soviet Army and the GRU tells him this might be more than a chance encounter. However, the man seemed friendly enough.

The man said, "I read _War And Peace_ once. A great book. Good and evil. Love gained and love lost. The cost of war in human terms. Countries in conflict."

Dmitry found himself drawn to this man, if only a little. "Yes it is a great book. I am reading it now for the fourth time."

"I'm taking Jake for his daily walk. There's a hot dog cart down the way. Would you care for one?"

Dmitry thought maybe this man wasn't a threat.

After a few seconds, Dmitry said, "Okay, I got a couple a minutes. What do you do besides walk your dog?"

"I work for the government, INS. How about you?"

"Government work too - European. I'm on holiday."

"My name's Brett. What's yours?"

"Dirk."

Dmitry thought, _Who is this guy?_

They reached the hot dog cart and Brett bought two hot dogs. Reaching down, he gave a piece to the dog.

"So, how do you like America?"

"It's a great country. A free and powerful country."

"How's the hot dog?"

"Good thanks, I miss sauerkraut. What do you do for your government?"

"Office work. I have some time off and need the fresh air.

"What do you do?"

"Office work mostly."

"Lots of opportunity in the States. You can make some good money here."

"Yeah, maybe I'll look into it."

"Oh, maybe I can help."

Dmitry thought, _What do I do now? Stay? Or make an excuse and leave? Maybe this man really doesn't know who I am. He did offer to help...God, I am almost home._

"So, you help certain people immigrate to the U.S.?"

"Something likes that. If someone has issues, and one needs assistance in resolving certain problems abroad, I specialize in that."

"So if someone had an issue or a problem, you could cut some red tape and help them out."

The man replied, "That's possible. Are you considering a move to the U.S.?"

"I have a few immigration issues that I need to resolve, but I am considering a permanent move."

"I have a few moments. Let's sit down and talk about it."

"That would be good, thanks."

After what seemed only a few minutes, Dmitry finally said, "I have a family who will be in serious jeopardy if I don't return."

"It's possible we can minimize their exposure. We'll certainly try our best. We can talk with some other people and take the next step. What do you think?"

"I think so."

Now, Major Dmitry Padorin was firmly in the hands of the FBI. Fifteen years of his life simply vanished. He was trapped and freed at the same moment/ " _What? What have I done? What will happen to Natasha and the children? I was almost home."_ Dmitry blurted out, "They will probably shoot my family."

"We will do all we can to avoid that," Brett said, but he was wondering how. He'd come there only to find out what was going and this was proving much bigger than a loose brick and pink chalk in a deserted alley.

They continued walking down the boardwalk, until reaching the FBI office three blocks from the hot dog stand.

A long and revealing conversation ensued between Major Dmitry Padorin, and the FBI.

The importance of protecting the major and his family grew commensurate to the FBI's understanding regarding the importance of the Major's position within the KGB, and the value of the information he could provide.

"I've been strongly considering defection. But my wife and children are in the Soviet Union, and the KGB will most certainly take out their revenge on them."

"Major Padorin, we think we may be able to construct a ruse, whereby the KGB will believe you are dead."

"My superiors will automatically think it was a trick unless they see my death with their own eyes."

"No promises, but we will help you, if you help us."

"I guess I don't have much choice," Dmitry said, his de facto surrender a result of his conviction that he would never see his family again, that three lives would be sacrificed to save his own. _Will I ever see them again?_ With that thought, and the realization that this might be his last opportunity to save his family, the flow of information from Major Dmitry Padorin increased, the stenographers engaged and the tape recorders hummed. Questioning began with his trip to North Carolina on K137.

In New York, Bill Blandd was in trouble.

****

### The Pitch

Brett took the phone call from Arizona.

"What happened?"

"The guy turned it down."

"What did you tell him?"

"I offered him a way out of the chair, and a chance to end his life in service to his country. I told him the gist of what you faxed to me."

"Very well, thanks Tim."

Brett was enraged. He immediately flew to the FBI office in Winslow. It was late at night when he arrived.

Gregg Jacobs, convicted murderer and former U.S. Army Ranger, obtained permission and used the prison pay phone to call Herbert Lawson, death penalty qualified attorney, and court appointed counsel.

"Herbert, I need to see you tomorrow."

"Okay, I'll be there tomorrow early, 8:00 a.m."

The next morning, 29 April, Brett was at the prison check-in slightly before 8:00 a.m. He introduced himself to Herbert Lawson.

"Good morning, Agent Culpepper."

"Good morning."

"I will be at Mr. Jacobs side throughout this entire episode, or whatever you want to call it."

Brett thought, That's what we need, another lawyer.

"Very well."

Brett summoned up his best political speech.

"The proposal was presented inappropriately. The agent was insensitive to Mr. Jacobs's situation."

"Let me understand something here. You want me to believe that the FBI screwed something up?"

"Well, that's not exactly right. The FBI may not be right, but they are never wrong and they never make a mistake."

"What? I can't believe what I'm hearing."

As they entered the visitor's pen, Gregg Jacobs was already seated at a table.

"You wouldn't believe what these people want me to do Herbert."

"I know. I don't believe it, either. Would you care to start over Agent Culpepper?"

"Part of what Agent Forbes said was true. However, most of what he said needs clarification. What I say now is of a highly classified nature. Mr. Lawson, you must understand that."

"I understand your statement, Mr. Culpepper."

Brett continued, "Here is the issue and how we can reach an agreement. Mr. Jacobs is due to die by lethal injection tomorrow at 12:00 p.m. We can avoid that. We have a way for Mr. Jacobs to leave this world with a sense of dignity."

Herbert Lawson retorts, "I can't wait to hear this. What is this dignity deal?"

"Mr. Jacobs will leave Winslow today and accompany me to California."

"Excuse me; you want my client to do what?"

"Leave Arizona, accompany me to California."

"And?"

"Let me explain. We have a Soviet defector. The Russians don't know this. He is due to exfil the U.S. by water tomorrow. A Soviet sub will probably pick him up 20 miles out. We want the Soviets to believe he is killed by the U.S. Coast Guard."

No one said a word. A cold stone silence filled the bare room.

After a moment Brett continued, "If they believe he is dead, then his family will be safe, and, later, maybe we could get them out. If the Soviets have any suspicion that he has defected, his family will be executed. That's a wife, a 2-year-old boy and an 8-year-old girl."

Herbert Lawson, slightly aghast, gathered himself up and asked, "Why did you select Mr. Jacobs as your victim?"

"Well, Mr. Jacobs looks remarkably similar to our man."

"And, if in the wildest stretch of our imagination we say yes, what would my client's family get in return?"

Brett cleared his throat and said, "Here's what we're offering:

"1. We will help Mrs. Jacobs find steady employment.

"2. We will pursue survivor benefits under special circumstances with Social Security for her and her son.

"3. We will provide Mr. Jacobs a Christian burial.

"4. We will locate a male mentor through the 'Big Brother' program and insure that his son Matt has the proper male guidance throughout his formative years."

A long and electric pause filled the room.

Brett gave it his best shot, he desperately wanted this to work, but time was getting short.

Herbert Lawson was aghast at Brett Culpepper's brief, but powerful speech. Lawson stated, "We need this in writing, and it must be signed by a responsible government official,"

"That would be me. I am authorized to make the deal. But, we need to understand one another. Mr. Jacobs must play his role."

"Could we have the room for a minute, Mr. Culpepper?"

"Certainly."

Brett left the room, and collapsed into a chair.

Gregg and Herbert spent an hour together that morning. Brett Culpepper was then invited back into the room.

"Mr. Culpepper, we have a deal with three additions."

"What are they?"

"Gregg will want to spend time with his wife at the last possible moment."

"Done. I will arrange that. And?"

"His wife and son will know the nature of this affair in full when his son reaches 18-years-old."

"I will personally take care of that."

Herbert continued, "And I would like to be there."

"Certainly, Mr. Lawson. However, both of you must understand that this affair is Top Secret, and will remain so."

Herbert responded, "I will respect that."

"And last...?" Brett asked.

"We want Gregg's name cleared. We want that witness to the fight found. Gregg isn't innocent, but he killed with cause, in self-defense," Lawson answered. "He didn't earn the death penalty."

Brett asked, "Mr. Jacobs, will you cooperate and fulfill your part?"

"With Mr. Lawson's approval, I will."

Herbert Lawson summoned up his best response, "We agree, and may God forgive us for what we are about to do."

"Thank you, gentlemen. We must proceed. The success of this mission is time intensive."

A polygraph team was then called into the room and Gregg was tested. With Gregg's insistence upon the existence of the witness verified, Herbert Lawson left, and Gregg Jacobs and Brett Culpepper stayed behind. Subsequent to a few phone calls to SAIC Doug Clarke, a federal Judge, the Governor of Arizona, and a visit with the prison warden, Brett and Gregg left the prison with a Federal Court Order in the Warden's hand. They boarded an FBI jet and departed for Santa Barbara.

****

### Out of the Shadows and Into the Moonlight

That same day, the FBI team retrieved Dmitry's boat and trailer. Brett Culpepper and Gregg Jacobs were in Santa Barbara at 4:45 p.m. Gregg Jacob's handcuffs were removed, and he saw the sunset for the first time in eight years. The FBI team briefed Gregg. Back in Washington, the White House was updated.

During his debriefing, Dmitry was extremely despondent. He wondered how they discovered him. He thought he was so careful. After three successful missions in the U.S. what went wrong this time? He was apprehensive about Natasha and his family. What will happen to them?

For the CI team, things were beginning to move a lot faster. The time schedule was complete. Most of the team was released, but a core group remained. Brett Culpepper had done his work well. He was advised that Soviet reconnaissance satellites would be unable to monitor the proceedings the following day. The satellites would be in the Atlantic near Scotland at that exact time and date.

At 3:00 a.m. on April 30, 1990, an 18-foot boat floats by the dock near the launch ramp at the Isla Vista Community Park. It was a clear dark morning with a half-waning moon. Enough light for their purpose. Several men gather dockside around the boat. One man was orchestrating the events as items were loaded into the craft.

A short time later, a black sedan entered and parked a short distance away, near a grove of palm trees. Two people got out and spoke for a moment. One of them, a slight figure in a hat and coat, walked out of the shadows and into the moonlight. A man quickly approached, and they embraced. Their conversation spanned almost 20 minutes. At about 3:25 a.m., one of the other men walked toward the couple.

"Time is getting a little short."

"Thank you," she replied.

A few minutes later, the two kissed. Her companion broke away, turned, and walked to the boat.

"Find my witness Mr. Culpepper. I want my family's name cleared."

Brett replied, "We will keep our word, Gregg."

The man got into the boat, and started the outboard motor. After a few seconds, he slowly backed the boat out into the channel. He looked at the woman standing in the moonlight, gave her a wave, and headed out to sea. She blew him a kiss, waved, and watched until he was out of sight. Only then, did the woman return to the sedan, her escort closed the door, and they slowly drove away.

****

### Walking Away

In the first week of May 1990, Svetlana's mother and father met her at the train station in Leningrad. Everything was normal, just another visit. The next day, while Svetlana's parents were getting some rest from the grandchildren, there was a soft knock at the apartment door. Svetlana opened it to a young policewoman. She said that she had word from Vassily, and handed Svetlana an envelope with her name on it. She then recited the story of Sasha. Svetlana invited the young lady in, opened the envelope, and quickly read the contents. After Svetlana reread the letter, she looked at the woman.

"What do you want me to do?"

Three days later, Svetlana and the children packed for their return to Moscow. Her mother heard Svetlana make a telephone call for a taxi. This was something new for the Soviet Union, a private taxi service. At 3:00 p.m., the children were sent downstairs with their grandfather to wait for the taxi.

Svetlana's mother thought, why didn't Svetlana ask her father to take them to the train station in their car?

Just then the call buzzer rang from downstairs. Quick hugs and kisses were exchanged. Knowing that she would never see her again, Svetlana took one last tearful look at her mother, and walked out of the apartment.

The taxi pulled up at the curb, the driver got out, and helped with the bags. He collected 30 rubles. They drove off and headed for the train station. The driver paid close attention to his rear view mirror. After ten minutes, he said,

"I don't see anyone behind us."

A walkie-talkie shrieks, and he puts it to his ear.

"Okay, that's good."

The taxi traveled for two hours, and then they were transferred to a truck. After half an hour, Svetlana then heard the sound of ocean surf. The truck slowed, and then stopped. A minute later, the canvas cover was thrown back and the gate lowered.

One of the men said, "Quickly now, I'll take one of the children."

Svetlana replied, "They get frightened if I'm not close."

He replied, "I understand."

In the distance, she recognized a town from her childhood. Her family had once come here for summer outings. The town was Kohtia-Jarve, a fishing seaport on the northern coast of Russia. They walked down to a sheltered beach. She could just barely see a boat. It was painted black, and a dark canvas tarp covered the top of the boat. The group quickly got into the boat, were made as comfortable as possible, and the engine started. It was barely audible. They headed north out into the Gulf of Finland.

Svetlana asked, "How long? The children are a little seasick."

"About an hour. Try to get them to sleep if you can."

"I'll try."

The water was slapping noisily against the hull. Fortunately, the seas were fairly calm. Their speed was slow, about 10 knots. No wake was seen. With the dead black paint, the boat was almost impossible to see in the water. The wooden construction and the paint absorbed all radar signals. The Soviet Coastal Command would see nothing on their radar screen except surface scatter. Also, they were too low and slow in the ocean for the patrol boats to see them.

At first light, the craft was in Finnish waters.

"Mrs. Nolitsyn, we are almost there. Shouldn't be more than half an hour or so."

Svetlana, mumbled, "Thank you."

The children were finally asleep. Svetlana heard muffled talk on a walkie-talkie. The boat was two miles off the coast of Finland, near Kotka. They were safe now. They pulled into a cove, and tied up at a dock. Six men met them.

"Mrs. Nolitsyn, you and the children are safe now. You are in Finland. These men will take you and the children to a place to rest up."

"Good, thank you very much."

Done. Mission accomplished. Svetlana and the children spent the next day resting for a long trip to America.

The next day, they were moved by plane to an airstrip in Sweden outside of Stockholm. The family was flown to Scotland, and then by jet to the United States. Neighbors would not miss them for another two or three days. It would take the KGB well over a week to discover that they were gone.

The escape and evasion team would be scattered. The truck would have another set of tires, and different set of license plates. It would not be washed. It wouldn't be a Soviet truck if it were clean. The GAZ-66 would reenter life as another Soviet delivery truck, until the next time.

Back in the United States, Vassily left for lunch a few days later, and walked to the Corvette Diner on I Street in D.C. A man was sitting nearby with a small bouquet of violets on the counter. Vassily gave the flowers passing notice. Smiling, he ordered an Elvis Presley Special, calmly ate his lunch, paid his check, and simply walked away.

****

### Recovery, Finally

Captain Boris Zloty brought K137 halfway around the world. After he had dropped off his passenger in the Atlantic, he received a message to immediately plot a course to the waters off Santa Barbara. Under the North Pole, and back out into the Pacific, it has taken almost two weeks to position the boat off the California coast. Orders were to stay 100 miles off the Santa Barbara coastline, in order to rendezvous with an agent. He has been in the area for two days. Boris patrols K137 in a holding pattern, and waits. The contact should be in the area at about 5:30 a.m., an hour before sunrise. Ordered to be flexible in the execution of his duty, Boris patrols, waits, and listens.

He is concerned that no sign has manifested. _The 5:30 a.m. pickup time is close._ Within a few seconds, sonar advises they have picked up an outboard motor to the east. _This must be our man._ Sonar reports numerous echoes. _Several ships are heading in the direction of the outboard!_ The outboard was 15 miles away and closing in on the K137's position. The larger boats were 20 miles due east and headed towards the outboard. Five minutes later, sonar reports the outboard is now 10 miles away, with the other boats gaining on him.

Darkness ruled the moment, but early dawn was creasing the eastern horizon between low gold clouds and deep blue sea.

Sonar reports that the outboard has dramatically gained speed. _Apparently, the exfil has spotted his pursuers._

"Up, periscope," Captain Zloty orders, and he looks to the east. The submarine is far enough away that the other boats cannot distinguish the periscope within the ocean swells.

The outboard is now five miles away. The captain orders the video camera turned on.

Standing in the wheelhouse of the coast guard cutter, Brett, his eyes glued to field glasses, looks intently at a barely discernable shape five miles away. _Jacobs is steering the boat in the right direction, and playing his part well. If the Coast Guard does their job, we'll be finished with this matter._

Back on the sub, the captain magnifies the view. He can see the boat clearly. The outboard is now two miles away, and the others are almost on him. Captain Zloty sees plumes to each side of the outboard.

"They are firing on him," he shouts to the crew. Other than the echo of Captain Zloty's words, the entire submarine is deathly silent.

Sonar reports naval artillery ocean hits. The outboard desperately tries to outrun the larger craft surrounding it.

If he gets away, a remote possibility, we could pick him up later. He looks like the same man we dropped off a month ago....

The boat explodes and disappears. Captain Zloty keeps the video running. He sees the larger boats are two U.S. Navy frigates and a U.S. Coast Guard cutter. A few minutes later, Captain Zloty sees the Coast Guard crewmen attempt to rescue survivors. They find nothing. The boat and man are on the bottom of the sea. It's over.

Our man is killed.

"We must strike for home," the Captain says to his crew. "Down, periscope," he shouts.

Boris slowly maneuvers the sub away from the carnage, and heads, deep and silent, for Vladivostok. Two days later, he raises the VHF antenna, and transmits the sad news. Upon their arrival, the video will be turned over to KGB.

On board the U.S. Coast Guard Cutter _WMEC Alex Hooker_ , the captain and crew laid out the body and debris from the ocean. Sonar reported faint Soviet sub propeller vibrations, heading west.

_So, they know._ _Excellent,_ thought Brett. _We're home free._

He felt little grief for Jacobs, the bigger picture was more important. His participation was crucial to the operation, and after all, Jacobs was a convicted killer. Brett would keep his word, and, especially, he would try to find the missing witness.

****

### The Final Curtain

In Moscow, Major Zhukov handed General Yuchenko a message from the sub. After a long pause, he said,

"So we lost our man, and the goods?"

"Yes, sir, it appears that way at the moment."

"Very well, order the sub captain back to Moscow the second he arrives in Vladivostok."

"Yes, sir. We have another issue, sir. The Washington Field Station has reported that Vassily Nolitsyn was not checked in to the housing complex last night, and, he also did not report for work this morning."

"Maybe he had operational requirements."

"None, sir. At this time they are reporting him missing."

"Very well, ask KGB Washington to follow up."

"Yes, sir, will do. That's all I have for now."

"Thank you, Major."

****

### Back in Port

Back at the U.S. Naval Base at Point Magu, California, the body and debris were turned over to the Drug Enforcement Agency. An autopsy was performed. The cause of death was determined to be naval shrapnel from a five-inch shell. Very little else was recovered, except for the riddled life vest worn by the unidentified man.

The Navy reported the reason for opening fire was the man fired at them with a pistol, and that the boat was traveling at a high rate of speed out into the Pacific. He was suspected of rendezvousing with a Mexican fishing boat for a drug transfer. The body was cremated and the ashes were scattered in the Pacific five days later.

That was the story given to the local media. It didn't go much further; another dead drug dealer with no name was of little interest to CNN. The Soviets suspected it was a cover story for their dead agent. The Kremlin was convinced that Dmitry Padorin was dead. Brett Culpepper, Jim McClain, and the rest of the team returned to their posts.

****

### Epilogue

At the end of 1991, the Soviet Union was in its final days, and after an attempted coup, Gorbachev's days were numbered. Even now, he is credited as a man who tried to give Communism a gentle face. To no one's surprise, on December 25, 1991, the Hammer and Sickle of the Evil Empire was lowered from the Kremlin Dome, never to rise again.

Arthur Van Hodges' efforts to force a conciliatory foreign policy failed. The documents passed to Vassily in the Georgetown bookstore were sent to KGB in Moscow. They were disputed, ridiculed, and never forwarded to the Kremlin. Arthur retired in 1993, and put a gun to his head in 1998.

The true identity of Apollo has never been established. It was suspected that she, or he, has been an agent for the Russians since the 1970s. Defectors in recent years have failed to identify Apollo. Apollo could be still working for the Russians. No one knows.

Charlie 'BlueDog' Waters remained forever silent. Vitriolic hatred of the United States Government and the loss of his brother in Vietnam drove him to the end. He received 35 years to life, and serves his time at the Federal Maximum Security Prison outside Marion, Illinois. Charlie made just one mistake in 21 years. From his prison cell, BlueDog watched the Soviet Union's final days unfold. He will be eligible for parole in 2020.

John Parent was one of five employees at Los Alamos National Laboratory suspected to be the source of material recovered from Dmitry. However, the Bureau was unable to find any conclusive evidence. He continued to deny his involvement and refused to take a polygraph. In August 1990, he was forced to retire. He watched the "workers paradise" descend into confusion and chaos on CNN. His wife, Meredith, divorced him soon after his retirement. He drinks a lot now.

Clyde 'Morris' Riddle, discovered by a partial fingerprint on one of the Pantex drawings, was later identified by Dmitry as his contact in Amarillo. He was tried, convicted, and sentenced to 20 years to life. His prison cell is just down the block from Charlie Waters. Occasionally, they play chess.

Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Rostov was suspected of being a double agent, but in Moscow he passed interrogation and a polygraph with flying colors. With Vassily's defection, he was exonerated. His bout with the flu left his memory blank about Vassily's assignment to recover BlueDog's blue laundry bag. He retired to the Russian countryside in 1997. His passion is Harley Davidson motorcycles.

Vassily Nolitsyn and his family disappeared into the Army's Defector Program, and now live a secluded life in Arizona. He occasionally lectures at the United States Army Intelligence School (USAINTS) at Fort Huachuca. The issue of being labeled a traitor by his country constantly works on him. Yuri Nosenko's visits help ease the pain. Vassily is not so hard and cold anymore.

Major Dmitry Padorin quickly disappeared into the FBI's Counter Intelligence defector program. With his wife and children left behind, he was a man ridden by fear, doubt, and loneliness. This was slowly driving him to suicide until one spring day in 1992; a Russian woman and two children appeared at his doorstep. Our many thanks to Her Majesty and MI5. A year later, the Silver Spur beckons the couple on the weekends. They're regulars now. San Antonio Rose ain't never been danced better. The Major and his family are home.

Two weeks after the incident in the Pacific, a mentally disturbed truck driver stumbled into a Phoenix, Arizona Police Station. The man had been carrying the memory of a stabbing at a bar for eight years. Four men had been killed. The memories had finally driven him over the edge. He was informed that Gregg Jacobs, the convicted killer, had been executed two weeks prior. A polygraph was given and the results were reported to Brett Culpepper. Gregg Jacobs' witness found his own way home.

Gregg Jacob's wife, Alicia, eventually changed the family's last name and found a job at a Utah IRS center in June 1991. Her son turned out to be a gifted math student, and graduated with honors from Stanford in 2002. When Matt turned 18, Brett Culpepper paid the two a visit in Salt Lake City. He delivered a letter on White House stationery to a solemn and tearful Alicia that began, "With deep gratitude and thanks from a grateful nation...." Just north of Santa Barbara, the ocean surf beckons her every April 30th. She never fails to toss a wreath to him. Their one-sided conversation lasts hours. Gregg is a grandfather now.

The Last Hurrah for An Evil Empire failed.

****
Once in our lives, a line is drawn in the sand. The line may be anger, or passion, it matters little. It may be drawn by others, or by us. If we cross, we may look back, we may not. Forgotten or lost, our passion drives us on. Sooner, or later, we will reap the price of that fatal step.

### About the Author

Casey Cavanaugh was born in Oklahoma to a family grounded in the military. His father was a WWII Navy Combat Surgeon. After joining the U.S. Army, Casey served in a combat Intel unit in the Far East.

He found a home in the Pacific Northwest just outside Portland, Oregon, and soon began writing espionage thrillers.

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