An hour before dawn Oleg Tchernychenko awoke and looked out the window into the Scottish night. The wind was rattling the pane, and raindrops were spattering themselves against the window. He dressed quickly and went downstairs to brew a pot of tea.
As the kettle warmed, he wandered through the old house looking at his books. He had thousands, which filled shelves in various rooms from the floor to the ceiling. Books. They were the great discovery when he left Russia fifteen years ago. Books. The Communists didn’t like books, except politically correct tomes by Russian authors, which weren’t, to Tchernychenko’s mind, real books at all. He made this momentous discovery in Great Britain, in the bookshops and libraries that dotted the streets and neighborhoods.
He had been lucky. One of the first books he found was Winston Churchill’s History ofthe English-Speaking Peoples, in four volumes. Inside he found civilization. Churchill told of conquests and kings, religious passions and wars and the differing visions that led the world forward, in fits and starts. Churchill’s six volumes on the Second World War were a revelation; one almost wondered if that were the same war the Communists had talked about all those years.
He read Charles Darwin, William Shakespeare, the Brownings, and Alfred Lord Tennyson. And everything else he could get his hands on, from Robert Louis Stevenson, H. G. Wells, H. Rider Haggard and J. R. R. Tolkien to Tom Clancy, Dan Brown and J. K. Rowling.
Tchernychenko walked along, fingering the books on his shelves. He smiled when he reached the little paperback mysteries by Agatha Christie. He had them all — every one.
When the tea was ready, he poured himself a cup and stood at the kitchen door watching the dawn. The sky began to gray. As the light improved he could see the clouds scudding swiftly over the grass-covered hills, churning endlessly, driven by the wild wind.
He glanced at his watch. On Saturday the limo was coming from London to pick him up, him and his two bodyguards, who were still upstairs in bed. He certainly didn’t need to be in London to work. Still, he had a few hours before he needed to start making telephone calls and taking care of business.
He had leased this house in the Highlands because he loved Scotland— loved the hills and waving grass and rocks and sky, loved the weather in all four seasons. Five miles west was the coast, steep, rocky cliffs hammered since time began by the restless sea, with sheep making a precarious living on the headlands. Here and there were little cottages, hunkered down, a part of the earth. Scotland was wild, visual and sensual; when he was in London or Europe and thought of it, he always smiled, as one does thinking of an old lover fondly remembered.
When he finished his tea, Oleg Tchernychenko donned his rain gear and Wellingtons and prepared for a hike. He paused at the door. Putin was sending fatal messages to people who displeased him— Tchernychenko had few friends in high places in Moscow — and Abu Qasim and his fanatics wanted him dead. When he heard Jake Grafton’s message, he had known the admiral spoke the truth.
He looked again at the cold rain and December wind, blowing in off the Atlantic. It was a bad day for assassins, who were probably home in bed. On the other hand.. He went back to his den and found the double rifle a Scottish neighbor had once used on an expedition to Africa. The rifle was a tangible reminder that in a free society a man could get a wild hair and journey to far corners of the earth to stalk the great beasts, for no reason other than he wanted to go. There was something magical about that — almost mystical. That a man could envision a life different than what he led, and go forth to seek it; say what you will, that is freedom.
He loaded the rifle — with big, heavy yellow cartridges topped with big, heavy lead slugs — made sure the safety was on and set out with it under his arm. His destination was the low ridge to the north of his house. Last year on its rocky crest he had found a rusted sword. From that vantage point a man could see for miles, if the visibility was good enough. Perhaps in olden days a soldier had waited there, on watch — and perhaps had died there. Personal tragedies are quickly submerged in the river of time, and are irretrievably lost.
As he walked with the rain stinging his cheeks and the rifle heavy under his arm, Oleg Tchernychenko scanned possible hiding places and thought about life and death.
Alexander Surkov, his aide, was dead of polonium poisoning. Grafton thought Surkov had sold out Tchernychenko and Winchester and the others to Abu Qasim. If Surkov did that, he knew he was signing their death warrants. Tchernychenko didn’t believe that Surkov was capable of such an evil.
Thinking about it as he walked along, Tchernychenko was sure he was right. Surkov would never do a thing like that. The Seychelles check … aah, that was a different matter. Alexander Surkov was perfectly capable of working both sides of the road to Moscow if there was money in it for him, and probably he had.
If he did, he had probably crossed Putin or one of his friends, which was a dangerous thing to do.
Oleg Tchernychenko had also crossed Putin, in fact, many times … and Abu Qasim. Putin was inevitable, a thing that was going to happen. Qasim — well, that was a conflict he had sought. He had known Huntington Winchester for years, at least ten. They had done business and developed a mutual respect. He and Winchester had spent long evenings together, several of them here in Scotland. They had become fast friends, and their conversations had covered the gamut of the human experience.
So when Winchester lost his son and asked for help against the religious fanatics, Tchernychenko had readily agreed. It was time to fight those tyrants, too.
Of course, they could strike back. He had always known that.
He was in no hurry to die. Since leaving Russia, Tchernychenko had discovered that life is sweet. He had come to see the grand sweep of life, the human struggle, the changing earth down through the ages. Come to see it and become part of it.
He had had a good life. No thanks to the Communists, the tyrants or the religious fanatics, all of whom sought to impose their vision of life on everyone else.
Oleg Tchernychenko paused, turned his face to the wind and closed his eyes and let the rain pound his face. Well, damn them all.
Sure enough, the next day at noon, Jake Grafton called me. “Go see her again this afternoon,” he said, “and get some more. Then call me. Make her sell you.”
“Why don’t I—“
“Please, Tommy. Just follow orders.”
“It’s really great being on your team, by the way, being one of the guys in the huddle. But if you expect me to catch a ball, you’re going to have to tell me what the play is.”
“Indeed.”
That was Jake Grafton, Mr. Consensus.
I called Robin Cloyd at Langley to find out what was going on just then at the Petrou chateau. She was supposed to be reading — or at least scanning — the printouts sent over to Grafton’s office by the CIA of the conversations picked up by the bugs I had planted last week. It seemed a lifetime ago.
“So what’s happening today in Marisa’s life?” I asked.
“Let me get my notes,” she said. “How’s the weather there?”
“Clear and chilly.”
“Oh, I wish I were there,” she said warmly. “France sounds so romantic.” I’m sure.
“I’m hoping, on my next vacation—“
“This call is costing the taxpayers serious money,” I pointed out. I was quickly learning that it was necessary to keep her focused.
“Ah, here are my notes. Marisa and Madame Petrou had lunch together a few minutes ago. This morning — morning in France — they visited madame’s attorneys. They were talking about attending a concert tonight.”
“Thanks.” I broke the connection. Speedo Harris was there with me at our vantage point in the inn, so I decided to take him along. He could watch the joint from in front of it.
Twenty minutes later I presented myself at the security shack in front of the main gate and presented my card. I had several in my wallet to choose from, so I selected one that said terry g. shannon, world travel corp. My cell phone number was printed on it. The guard, a portly fellow well past middle age, wearing a holstered pistol, went back inside to call the main house.
A while back I thought about having a card made up, tommy carmellini, spies and lies, for occasions such as this, but knew my many superiors at the agency would frown when they learned of it, as would happen eventually. People pass cards around or discard them in the oddest places.
In about two minutes the guard moved to the door as the gate opened and waved us on. He kept my card, probably as a souvenir.
