Almost Armageddon

By Neil Pollack

After being exiled to the United States from the Soviet Union in 1964 at the age of six, Alex Bell has managed to put his parents tragic death behind him and lead a somewhat normal life. In 1991, Alex is working as a high school history teacher and wrestling coach in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He is astonished when hes chosen to go to Russia as an exchange teacher.

Alex seizes the opportunity and travels to Moscow, hoping to make his peace with the past. Things take a strange turn, however, when he receives a mysterious note asking him to help America. A meeting with a CIA agent opens a door into Alexs former life. If he helps the government, Alex could learn the story surrounding his parents accident and his true identity.

Alex delves deep into the shadowy world of espionage and soon becomes embroiled in a plot to thwart the assassination of President Mikhail Gorbachev. Alex knows that if Gorbachev is eliminated, then communism can continue, leading to a destabilized Soviet Union. What he doesnt know, however, is that the leader of the rebel group holds a connection to Alexs past, one that will set Alex down a dangerousand deadlypath.

Full of twists and turns, Almost Armageddon is an action-packed thrill ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469773629

Neil Pollack

Neil Pollack received his PhD from New York University. He is the author of Almost Armageddon, The Rosetta Cylinder, and The Designated Survivor. His work has been featured in many national and local magazines and newspapers. Pollack and his wife live on Long Island, New York, and in Florida.

Book preview

Prologue

Alex Bell had always thought that although a certain event might come full circle, it could never do so a second time. Like the cycle of life, dust to dust, it could never repeat another three-sixty to haunt again. At least, that’s what he thought until he unexpectedly gazed upon the face of his dead father, whose horrible death Alex himself had witnessed.

As Alex and his wife, Laura, sat at a table in a small midtown Manhattan restaurant, finishing their dinner, Laura suddenly saw the blood drain from Alex’s face. Feel okay?

Alex peered past his wife for several seconds as a myriad of repressed memories and emotions pierced his soul. It wasn’t possible—his father had died in his arms. Squinting to see better in the muted light of the brick and wood-beamed narrow restaurant, a distant recollection flashed through him. To his relief, the light of recognition dawned on him. He leaned toward Laura and said in a hushed voice, Three men wearing leather jackets just sat at the table behind you. The man facing me is one of my half-brothers.

Laura’s eyes opened wide. She began to turn around but thought better of it. You’re sure? It’s been over twenty years.

Alex nodded emphatically. He looks even more like our father now than he did then. Unless it’s his doppelganger, it’s him. Alex never expected to see any of his three half-siblings again, especially not here in America. He knew the expression Time heals all wounds, but Alex knew his own deep-seated wounds could never fully heal.

He slid his chair back to stand, but Laura grabbed his arm and asked, almost in a whisper, What are you doing?

Alex thought for a moment. Not sure. He walked past Laura, toward the men’s table, passing it unobtrusively but briefly hearing their conversation. He circled the restaurant, which was filled with its usual patrons, many of whom were dining that evening prior to attending one of Broadway’s many theaters. Alex slowly made his way back to his table and sat.

Laura stared at Alex. He sat silently as though lost in the fog of past memories. After a few seconds, she asked, Well?

The sound of her voice brought him back to the present. He speaks fluent Russian. It’s him. Alex leaned back in his chair, his mind a spinning top, the centrifugal force of which had events of the past flying off with far more recollections than he could possibly grasp.

Laura reached for his hand. Let’s ask for the check and get out of here. Seeing him is obviously disturbing you.

Alex looked at Laura, his wife of more than twenty years. She had just passed her fiftieth birthday but still was as attractive to him as when they’d first married—maybe even more so, as she had an elegance and sophistication that seemed to develop like fine wine. He was eight years her senior but was still athletic-looking, as he never gave up his love for rigorous exercise. He knew her instincts were correct. Seeing his half-brother did bring back memories, most of which were extremely unpleasant. They should leave.

But something stirred within himself. He felt a profound need to speak with his half-brother, the brother he never knew and had never spoken to. The only time he’d laid eyes on his two half-brothers and half-sister was at their father’s funeral in Moscow in 1991. He had promised his father to try to anonymously protect his three half-siblings who, at that time, were only teenagers. I may never have the chance again to speak with him. Might be here on vacation and going back to Russia. I need to find out how he’s doing and about my other half-brother and half-sister. Laura nodded in resignation.

Alex drew a deep breath and then walked to his half-brother’s table. Alex turned toward him, examining the man who so resembled their father—dark wavy hair, strong facial features, steel-blue eyes, and athletic physique. Seeing Alex, the three at the table stopped speaking and looked up at him. Alex spoke directly to his half-brother in perfect Russian. Excuse me for interrupting, but I knew your father back in Russia, an esteemed member of the Politburo. Are you Ivan or Josef?

Ivan glared at Alex and said nothing. After an uncomfortable pause, he seemed to force a smile as he calmly responded in heavily accented English, No, my friend, and know nobody in Politburo.

Alex was certain the man was lying, but he answered simply, Sorry, as Ivan’s eyes became horizontal slits.

Alex returned to his table and, sitting down, said assertively, It’s Ivan or Josef, but he denied it. And I could tell he knows I didn’t believe him.

Laura cocked her head to the side. Why would he lie? Maybe it really is his doppelganger. Then, with concern, she added, You didn’t tell him who you are, did you?

Alex shook his head. Only that I knew his father. At our father’s funeral, I stared at the only living flesh and blood I had left. Their faces were stamped indelibly into me. It’s either Ivan or Josef. Alex nervously tapped the table with his finger. His eyes are steel blue.

Like yours. Again, why lie?

Alex looked toward the men’s table. One of the men—tall, with short-cropped dirty-blond hair—stood and walked out the door, just as the waitress approached Alex’s table, asking, Would you care for some dessert?

Still watching his half-brother’s table, Alex quickly diverted his eyes as he noticed his half-brother staring back.

Laura answered, Just the check.

While they were waiting for the waitress to return, Ivan and the third man—stocky with longish brown hair—got up and walked out. Good-bye, my brother, Alex thought. Live a long and happy life. Alex said sadly, almost to himself, He’s gone.

Laura nodded her head. It’s for the best.

Alex paid the check, and the two walked out the door. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, the stocky man accosted them immediately, pointing a gun at them. Alex and Laura both recognized that the gun had a silencer attached, and they froze. The man grabbed Laura’s arm and clamped his hand over her mouth. Alex tried to pull Laura from the man’s grip, but the man struck Alex on the side of his head with the butt of the gun, momentarily stunning him.

Ivan jumped out of a minivan parked on the street and helped to throw a kicking and squirming Laura inside. Then he turned to Alex, ordering him in Russian, Get in, or she’ll be dead in three seconds.

The threat left no room for hesitation. Alex climbed into the van, the door was slid shut, and the vehicle sped off. The tall man drove, with Ivan next to him in the front seat. Alex and Laura were in the second seat, and the stocky man was behind them in the rear seat, pointing the gun at them.

Fear for Laura—and also for him—tempered Alex’s instinct to take some action. His mind went into overdrive. His half-sibling had a privileged life in Moscow. Now, he was either a wanted criminal or … was he a spy? Apparently, Alex’s recognizing the man was enough to set their kidnapping in motion.

Laura’s voice quivered as she exclaimed, We have some money! Take it, and let us out.

Ignoring her plea, Ivan turned toward Alex. Who you? How you find me?

Alex rubbed his hand across his injured head and with as much composure as he could muster, Alex answered, Coincidence. We were eating, and you walked in.

Ivan pointed a menacing finger at Alex. Fuck your mother! You Russian. Who send you?

Alex answered forcefully, No one. I’ve lived in America for over fifty years.

Ivan jerked a thumb at his own chest, demanding, Give ID.

Alex and Laura quickly handed over their driver’s licenses.

After viewing their names and addresses, Ivan handed them back and remarked, So, you married. Live in Michigan. What you do here?

We’re both teachers, Alex responded, here on holiday. Seeing shows and some friends.

And, Laura nervously added, we have two teenage girls at home.

Then how you know my father? Ivan asked. And how you know me?

Alex read the anxiety on Laura’s face and tried to collect his thoughts. He had promised his father that he would protect his three half-siblings, and this he had continued to do the only way he knew how. To keep that promise, he would have to lie. Speaking rapidly, he replied, "I did some business with the Soviet government. My fluent Russian served me well. I met your father, who was influential in government. I attended his funeral, along with many dignitaries. I felt sorry for you and your family. Couldn’t keep my eyes off the three of you. Also, you resemble your father greatly. When you walked in, I almost thought it was him. When I heard you speaking Russian, I knew it was you. Wanted to say hello and ask how you and your family were doing. The question now is, why are you doing this? Try as he might, Alex couldn’t mask the trepidation in his voice. He had been in worse situations in Russia but always had been willing to gamble with his own life. Never did he have to worry about anyone or anything as important to him as Laura. He glanced at her, and when he saw she was trembling and her face was streaked with tears, he yelled at his half-brother, Look! Let us out here or any place you want, and we’ll forget we ever saw you."

Ivan grunted, turned toward the stocky man in the rear seat, and said, matter-of-factly, They talk, shoot woman. He turned to face front.

Alex grasped Laura’s hand, finding it unusually cold and clammy. His mind was racing through myriad possible solutions, but none seemed very promising.

The van sped across the Fifty-Ninth Street bridge and onto the Long Island Expressway. Thirty minutes later, the van turned onto a deserted south shore beach and stopped near some high dunes. Had he been alone, Alex might have been able to use his considerable talents to escape somehow. But with Laura in as much danger as he was, escape was probably out of the question. Perhaps these three were only bluffing, taking them here to threaten them into revealing something, although Alex didn’t know what that might be. Alex had one possible ace in the hole, but he would wait to see if he needed to use it.

The van was engulfed in complete darkness, as the moon had not yet risen, but Alex could hear the sound of gently crashing waves. Ivan turned to Alex and spoke in Russian. I don’t believe in coincidences, and I don’t believe your full-of-shit story. I’ve lived here for years with no one recognizing me. Now, who sent you, and how did you find me? I won’t ask again.

It was obvious that his half-sibling was into something sinister, most definitely illegal, and Alex surmised that his half-brother thought that he would inform on him to either the American or Russian authorities.

Nervously trying to buy some time, Alex asked in English, Which son are you? I remember one was Ivan and the other Josef.

Ivan thought for a moment. If this man knew who he was, he would already know his name—unless, of course, this man was very good at his job and was playing the game of innocent coincidence. But how to be certain? The wife. The wife was always the Achilles’ heel. Ivan reached under his leather jacket, pulled out a pistol, and pointed it at Laura’s head. He spoke in Russian and with impatience. Unless you want to witness her brains exploding onto your lap, I suggest you tell me the truth.

Laura didn’t need to speak Russian to comprehend the threat. She pressed her back against the seat and turned toward Alex. Images of her two daughters sped through her mind as tears began to flow.

The driver remarked coldly in English, Don’t mess seat. Walk to dunes and shoot them.

Laura practically screamed, Alex, tell him!

Although the truth was something he vowed never to reveal, Alex didn’t hesitate to reveal that truth as he spat, I’m your brother—your half-brother!

Ivan was taken aback. His eyes squinted as he asked, What lie is this?

The truth came pouring out. Our father was born Yuri Belkov. My name was Alexei Belkov until I was brought to America, where it was changed to Alex Bell. My wife and I have been married over twenty years, and I would appreciate it if you would lower your gun … please.

Ivan knew there were many rumors about his father—rumors that helped ruin Ivan’s life and create the person he was today. Was this man lying, or was there some truth to it? Ivan was willing to kill the two of them to save himself, but first he had to know what, if anything, this Alex Bell could tell him. Raising his voice, he spoke to Alex in Russian. I would know if you were related to me, so you either tell me the truth, or you’ll soon be food for the crabs.

As calmly as possible, given the circumstances, Alex responded in English. "Lower the gun, and you’ll know everything there is to know about your father … our father, including how he might have caused World War Three. And I saw him die."

Impossible! Ivan retorted.

I was there. I witnessed his death. I was there.

Ivan frowned at these far-fetched statements but realized he had nothing to lose. He could shoot them at any moment and bury them in the soft white sand of the dunes. This Alex Bell’s story seemed absurd but so absurd that it piqued Ivan’s interest. As soon as he got all the information he could out of this imposter, however, Ivan knew he would have to kill them, no matter what he was told. Their fate was sealed in the best tradition of the former Soviet Union—two bullets each in the back of the head. With his sordid past, he couldn’t afford to take the chance that they would inform on him to the authorities. But first, he needed to know what they knew, and so he tried giving them false hope. Okay, he responded in English, tell me story. If good, you live. If bad … He shrugged his shoulders.

Alex glanced at Laura. She didn’t deserve any of this. Having dealt with Russians in tight situations before, he recognized the distinct possibility that his tale might make the difference between life and death. But just in case his story didn’t impress his half-brother, Alex quickly concocted a plan B, especially since he couldn’t be certain whether Ivan controlled these other thugs. He drew a deep breath and exhaled heavily. It’s a long story that begins over twenty years ago, with a woman known only as Venus.

Chapter 1

Moscow. Late January 1991

There is no God. There is only Marx and Lenin. Of this, Venus was certain. The gospel according to the Communist doctrine provided her with the absolute truth that only fools believed in God, fools like the Jews—who instead of being allowed to emigrate voluntarily deserved to be thrown out of the Soviet Union—or Christians, who believed in Jesus. A man as God. How ridiculous. A childish crutch, Venus thought. There was only one supreme being, the Communist Party, and with body and soul she vowed to do all she could to save it. Now, she waited for Anatoly Pavel to bring the critical information on Alex Bell.

It was 9 p.m., and Pavel was late, but she didn’t allow herself to become upset with him, as unspeakable events in Afghanistan had taught her that patience was the most rewarding of virtues. He would arrive in due time, she told herself, but the frigid Moscow night made her hope it would be shortly. She adjusted the collar of her Russian mink coat, defending herself against the subzero temperatures that felt even colder with the brisk January wind emanating from the Arctic tundra.

She watched her breath form puffs of disappearing clouds as she stood under a street lamp near the corner of Kropotkinskaya and Barykovsky Streets, mere blocks from Red Square—the heart of the Soviet Union. The street lamp’s canopy of reflected light gave form to the otherwise invisible snowflakes that seemed to materialize from the shadow of the murky sky. The swirling, pristine crystals descended silently, floating weightlessly to the ground. Dry, brittle snow crunched under her fur-lined boots as she stamped her feet in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. She glanced at her watch. Ten past nine. He was ten minutes late. Her thoughts meandered toward Afghanistan, as they had countless times before.

Afghanistan. The mere thought of that desolate land brought back vivid memories she could never expel from her mind, no matter how hard she tried. Trained as a nurse, she’d been recruited into the war with Afghanistan during its early years, before the people and government became disillusioned with it. The Americans had their Afghanistan in Vietnam, fighting a war with tactics that could never win, a lesson that went unheeded by the Soviet government. She saw many men and even fellow nurses die horrible deaths in defense of Communism, the same Communism she was taught all her life was the one way the world should be.

On the battlefield, she learned to set a bone, stop the bleeding, bandage almost anything, and start an IV as well as anyone—certainly far better than any house doctor. Many of the wounds she saw—gaping wounds with intestines spilling out or horrible wounds to the head—were so severe that no medical miracle could fix them. She spent two years helping men—no, boys—survive their wounds. Some did, but some died, and many went home permanently disfigured. They had risked all they had to keep Communism alive in the cold, mountainous wasteland of Afghanistan.

When she returned home, her skills and attractiveness was not unnoticed by her superiors. They believed she’d make a marvelous intelligence officer, so they trained her. However, she soon grew disillusioned with the desk job they gave her. Somehow, after Afghanistan, pushing papers around her desk and fighting off advances from oversexed men wasn’t what she envisioned for herself. After five years with the army, she asked for and received her honorable discharge.

She tried working as a nurse again for a while, but that, too, was something she came to loathe. Changing bedpans and the like was far too mundane for her. The battlefields of Afghanistan haunted her.

She let herself be recruited into the current clandestine cause during the early days of impending changes for the Soviet Union. The lure of doing something for Communism, for her beloved country, and the excitement of the covert work was an enticement she couldn’t refuse.

She eventually was asked to perform assassinations by using her obvious talents. Though she did not believe herself to be a cold-blooded killer, she rationalized that the deaths of a few men were well worth the saving of her country and perhaps millions who might suffer and die from the upheaval that would come if Communism lost its grip on Soviet society. The men she killed were enemies. How many good young men did she see die in the mountains of Afghanistan? Too many to remember. The elimination of one or two counter-revolutionaries might help keep her cherished Soviet Union whole. Her reputation as an assassin earned her the code name Venus, not after the goddess of love but for the Venus flytrap, which recognized her prowess as a silent killer.

She crossed her arms, hugging her coat around her as headlights turned the corner and bounced their beams off the frozen street. Venus squinted against the glare of the caroming lights that grew steadily larger as they approached her and slowed down. Recognizing the car as his, she stepped toward the street as the ancient Zaporozhets sedan skidded to a halt. A momentary chill shot through her body as she reached the car, a reflex action caused by something other than the bone-chilling temperatures.

The door on the passenger side sprang open from the inside, and she quickly stepped into the car. Brushing white flakes from her coat, she snapped, You’re late, knowing he would expect her to be angry. Role-playing was always easy for her—she was a chameleon who could adapt to any environment.

Fearing he would arrive late, Anatoly Pavel had memorized his response in the car but knew he would stumble over his words, no matter how hard he practiced. I … I’m sorry. My … my wife asked me a hundred questions before I left. I know she suspects something, and I … I had to assure her that leaving home at this strange hour was related to my job.

Her eyes flared. You didn’t say anything else, did you?

Pavel squirmed as her penetrating eyes glared at him. She always made him squirm, but she was worth it. Only that my new position with the party obligated me to attend meetings at strange hours.

The windshield wipers were now swatting flakes as thick as goose down. She put a cigarette between her lips, struck a match, and inhaled deeply, the tip of the cigarette glowing red hot in the darkened car.

And she believed you? She exhaled smoke directly into Pavel’s face.

He coughed. Of course. In twenty years of marriage, you’re the only woman I’ve been with other than my wife. I’m not very good at lying to her, but I explained that much of my work is top secret, so meetings at this hour weren’t unusual.

Satisfied, she nodded her head and said, Drive. She proceeded to guide him to a large, deserted parking lot. The car’s heater was working at capacity, so she opened her coat, revealing her woolen sweater and leather skirt. You have it with you?

He reached into his coat pocket and handed her an envelope. She tore it open and read the contents, carefully digesting the information.

Pavel watched her intently as she attended to business. He knew she’d be pleased with his work, and he’d been paid handsomely for the information. But it wasn’t for the money; it was her, the most beautiful woman he’d ever been with. He had sex with her three times, and each time had been more fantastic than the time before. He hoped the information he provided this night would lead to another glorious sexual encounter. Pavel stared at the curve of her breasts and thought how incredibly delicious they appeared when she was naked, nipples hard and erect, and the images aroused him. He hoped she would agree to accompany him to the hotel room he had reserved. He continued to watch her sift through the material.

The documents revealed precisely what she had feared. The Americans had managed to locate Alex Bell, the man the CIA referred to as the Wolverine, who at this very moment was on a plane en route to Moscow. She knew the presence of Alex Bell could endanger Operation Caesar—the assassination of President Mikhail Gorbachev, whose liberal policies were threatening the breakup of the entire Soviet Union. She was well aware of the possible dire consequences for the world, should they succeed, as a destabilized Soviet Union potentially could lead to conflict with the United States, whose worst-case scenario might even lead to nuclear holocaust. But she believed saving her beloved Soviet Union was worth the risk. Her job was to determine if Alex Bell, purportedly the son of her leader, the former Yuri Belkov, was returning to the Soviet Union, and Pavel had helped her accomplish her mission.

Her expressive eyes conveyed her satisfaction. You’ve done well. Then she added with a bitterly glacial tone, These papers give us the information we need to continue to fight and ultimately expose the counter-revolutionaries for what they are—traitors to the cause.

Had those words been uttered in that manner by anyone else, Pavel would have dismissed them as being pure rhetoric, but he knew her words had sprung directly from her soul. You’re pleased?

Extremely. She smiled seductively.

Pavel placed a hand on her knee. I made a reservation at the Varshava Hotel. I was hoping you’d go with me tonight.

She’d known he would ask; he always did, with that same immature pleading tone in his voice. Anatoly Pavel was a small-time political assistant who thought that the seedy Varshava Hotel, popular with tourists who were doing Russia on a limited budget, was the ultimate invitation for her. She had managed somehow to sleep with the foul-smelling pawn several times—at least a half dozen, though she couldn’t remember exactly, or perhaps she chose not to. What she did remember was that she deserved an acting award for her performances. She’d had several meetings with Pavel over the past two weeks, using both sex and money as the initial lure, knowing that either one would work. It always did, just as it had with her mole at the US Embassy. She usually was able to concoct a decent excuse not to have sex with Pavel, but at those critical moments when she felt he would slip away from her and her mission, she used her talents to weave her web around him that much tighter.

But tonight was different. She had all the information she needed and was through with his services. She had one more job to perform that evening but decided to postpone it due to unexpectedly feeling a quirky desire—it awakened something sensual within her. Let’s do it in the car.

Pavel was caught completely by surprise. In the car? He blushed and then quickly became angry with himself at feeling embarrassed, but he’d never experienced anyone quite like her.

Why not? she urged. The windows are frosted, and there’s no one around.

Are you certain? I have a room … His eyes opened wide, and his mouth dropped open as he watched her hike her skirt up to her waist and slide her panties off around her boots. She lifted her sweater above her bra and pulled her bra above her breasts, exposing her body from breasts to ankles, bathed in luxurious mink. She spread her legs, and he could resist no longer. To hell with the hotel room and its predictable sex. This is excitement. He’d never been laid in an automobile but now began to understand the American male’s love affair with his car. He feverishly opened his belt buckle and pushed his pants and shorts down to his ankles. He was already hard. She smiled at the sight of his erection, thinking how little she would have to work this night to satisfy him. He slid to the passenger side, squeezed over, and faced her. She guided him into her and felt him shudder. He moved in and out of her, saying something, but she was preoccupied with slipping her hand into the deep pocket of her fur coat. She knew it would only take seconds for him to climax. The thought of his ecstasy and death occurring at the same moment triggered an orgasm in her.

He moaned as she clamped her legs around him, driving him closer, and he exploded in her. Ooh, this is … the best … ever, he gasped as he jerked uncontrollably.

Yes, love, yes, she soothed, and you are the best.

As he reached his last ejaculation, he felt her nails digging into his buttocks, the pain of which he always enjoyed, except this time it felt even more sensual, the pain now erotically more intense.

A strange tingling sensation began to spread throughout his body. He stopped pumping, jerked reflexively backward, and stared at her. Anatoly Pavel thought he was having a heart attack. His eyes bulged open as he grabbed at his chest. He began to gulp air like a drowning man but felt as if he were breathing in a vacuum. His mouth opened wider and wider, but his last breath was already taken.

She wondered whether or not he knew what she’d done to him. Was it surprise or shock she saw on his face? She wished she could know what he was feeling and thinking. Although his fate was already sealed, she continued squeezing the plunger of the syringe until it could be squeezed no more.

In his last conscious moment, he was a dying animal of prey, seeking to take his predator with him. He grabbed for her throat, but the paralyzing drug took effect on his nervous system almost immediately—nothing known to man would make his heart start beating again. His eyelids fluttered as his eyeballs rolled to the back of his head. His body went limp, and his inanimate weight slumped heavily on top of her.

His sweaty body was draped over her like a giant rag doll, and she shoved him off. He rolled to the side, hit the steering wheel, and fell to the seat on his back. His wide-open eyes stared lifelessly at her. She reached for the carotid artery and felt for a pulse. There was none. The syringe, invented as a saver of life, had taken Anatoly Pavel’s away from him.

She opened her purse, took out some tissues, and wiped between her legs. A thought crossed her mind that made her smile to herself—a part of him would remain alive inside her for a day or two, even though he was dead. She pulled her panties on and reassembled her clothing.

It was a struggle with his dead weight, but she managed to pull up his shorts and pants and buckle his belt. The drug, similar to the arrow poison curare, was almost untraceable unless someone was looking for it. This would be seen as a heart attack to a man overworked by the system. She hoped the death of a lower-echelon party member would raise no eyebrows and that Pavel would be buried soon enough, taking her secrets and identity with him—and that would render her invisible once more.

She turned the key and shut off the engine. When the authorities discovered his frozen corpse in the morning, it would be difficult for them to establish the time of death. Probably unnecessary, she thought, but she took precautions of this nature out of habit. The thought of how hard his frozen penis would be in the morning made her grin.

Her thoughts quickly turned to Operation Caesar. With the information on Alex Bell, it could proceed as scheduled, especially once her mole helped her make contact with him, ensuring that Bell couldn’t endanger the plan.

She knew that that same evening, the former Yuri Belkov had sent two of her newfound cohorts to find a low-life whore named Tatiana, in order to confirm that the KGB knew there was a plot to kill Gorbachev, and that a Yuri Belkov was involved. Another cohort of the operation named Viktor, who had blabbered to the filthy snitching whore Tatiana, was appropriately eliminated by first blowing off his genitals with a shotgun blast and then obliterating his face with a second blast. Overkill, perhaps, but an example had to be set for any other potentially undisciplined coconspirators. The outcome regarding this Tatiana whore remained to be seen, but Venus would know soon enough.

Stepping out of the car, she scanned the parking lot and then vanished into the snowy shroud. The spirit of Communism had to be preserved.

Chapter 2

Tatiana lay naked on her bed as she watched the john drop a few extra rubles on her dresser and then walk out of her apartment. She was very good with this one, and the extra cash she earned soon would be stashed with other money she’d saved, hidden in a crack in the wall behind the old wrought-iron stove. Her dilapidated one-room flat served her well enough in her age-old profession, but with the money she’d hoarded she’d soon be able to afford something better than this hellhole, a pre–World War II apartment building in the poorest section of Moscow. She was thirty years old and had been a prostitute her entire adult life. She believed she deserved better.

She rose from the old four-poster bed and slipped into her flower-patterned cotton nightie. It was 9:30 p.m., and she was finally through for this night. She’d wash up, sip a cup of instant decaf, and get to bed. It had been a long day, but then, every day was a long, drawn-out procession of servicing her regulars, who would simply knock on her door at the appropriate time—or else she’d have to hawk for new blood at her usual street corner or local bar. If she was lucky, she would procure a fresh trick before the police arrested her or the bar owner threw her out. Looking at herself in the mirror above the solid-oak dresser, she yawned and thought that if she were only better looking she could have charged higher prices