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Dragov phoned Tom Dade. "I want to see Reed-Henry," he said.
"O.K.," the deep, friendly voice boomed back at him. "I'll try to make it for this afternoon. Where are you staying? Can you find your way to Iglesia de San José?"
Dragov visualized the ancient church at the end of Harborview Lighthouse Lane with the ornate bell tower, adorned with intricate Spanish-style architectural details.
"Yes," he said.
"O.K. Up the street on the right is a pretty good coffee house called Café del Mar. If the meeting is on I'll pick you up at three."
A battered white Mustang drew up punctually. Dragov paid his bill and crossed the pavement as the passenger door swung open for him. Dade was in civilian clothes just like the last time.
"How much change you got?" Tom Dade inquired, eyeing Dragov.
"I've got about seventy-five cents," Dragov replied, counting the change in his pocket. "Why?"
"We're taking the toll road," Dade answered, gesturing toward the direction they were heading. "Reed-Henry's waiting for us in Pineville. You know, just a precaution."
Dragov hadn't anticipated this turn of events. "I see," he muttered.
"Don't worry," Dade assured him with a grin. "You got me with you."
As Dragov and Dade set off for Pineville, they traversed the toll road, where Dragov took in the sights. The road stretched ahead, flanked by lush greenery on either side, occasionally punctuated by roadside signs indicating nearby attractions. Dragov reached for change to pay the toll, observing the vehicles passing through. Suddenly, Dade spotted a sleek limousine approaching. The limo exuded an air of elegance, its polished exterior gleaming under the sunlight as it glided along the road. They turned onto Maple Street, where the limousine appeared, its presence unexpected in the quiet town.
"Should we be concerned about that limo?" Dragov's tone was stern and serious as he raised the question. "Who could it be heading towards Harborview?"
"It could be anyone," Dade replied, trying to calm Dragov's concern. "From an official at the British Consulate in L.A. to maybe even Lord Barton himself. But whatever it is, it's nothing that could affect our operation."
"It was my understanding that Pescadero doesn't allow its patients to have visitors," Dragov remarked, a hint of suspicion in his voice. "If it's a consular official, what does he hope to accomplish?"
"All he can do is see that she's treated well, nothing else," Dade explained to Dragov, his tone serious and measured.
As Dade and Dragov drove into the Pineville ghetto, the atmosphere changed dramatically. The buildings became more run-down, with faded paint and broken windows dotting the landscape. The streets were lined with dilapidated houses, and the sidewalks were cracked and uneven. The people living in the area were predominantly of Hispanic descent, and they cast wary glances at the newcomers as they passed by. They knew they were being watched, as the residents of the ghetto were accustomed to outsiders stirring up trouble in their neighborhood. The air was thick with tension and suspicion, making it clear that Dade and Dragov were entering a place where they were not entirely welcome.
"I want you to keep your wits about you, Dragov," Dade said sternly. "Watch our backs; if anything seems off, you know what to do. We're not here to start trouble, but we'll finish it if we have to."
As Dade and Dragov's Mustang rolled past, a man standing on the sidewalk, his demeanor hardened by life's challenges, noticed the car. He was rough around the edges, with weathered features and a grizzled beard. He shouted something unintelligible, his tone laced with hostility, as if suspicious of outsiders invading his turf.
"Don't look anyone in the eye around here," Dade cautioned. "Just keep focused on our mission."
"Why not?" Dragov responded with a hint of sarcasm. "Are they afraid they'll see a killer's gaze?"
"These folks are touchy," Dade elaborated. "They don't take kindly to outsiders, especially not ones who look like us. Sure, you could take any of them in a fight, but that's not the point. We don't need the cops breathing down our necks right now."
"What if they won't let us pass peacefully?" Dragov asked.
"Just yell 'Déjame en paz, por favor!' It usually gets them to back off, at least for a moment," Dade replied.
The car crossed a bridge into another ghetto, where the Latin feel is unmistakable but somehow distinct from Mexican. The buildings were a mix of worn-down houses and small apartment complexes, adorned with vibrant colors and intricate murals. The residents, while sharing a Latin heritage, had distinct features from Mexicans, with some having darker skin tones and others exhibiting features reminiscent of indigenous South American populations. Their demeanor was guarded, and they eyed the outsiders warily as they passed through their neighborhood.
"These folks are refugees from El Salvador," Dade said, his eyes staying on the road. "They've got a beef with the other Hispanics around here, and sometimes the cops have to step in to stop the fights."
As they navigated through the Salvadoran neighborhood, Dragov experienced a palpable sense of unease and tension. The sights and sounds of the area triggered memories of his past missions in war-torn countries, including Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, and Angola. These recollections evoked a familiar sense of the volatile atmosphere and the precariousness of life in such environments. Dragov was reminded of the chaos, conflict, and constant threat of violence that characterized his experiences as a covert operative in these troubled regions.
"D'you see what I mean?" Dade remarked to Dragov, gesturing at the contrasting neighborhoods they passed through. "This is the social divide in California that the tourists loungin' on the beaches never reckon with. Up north, it ain't so stark, but down here in the south, it's like a powder keg waitin' to blow."
They made their way down Camino del Rey. Dragov noticed that the buildings lining either side of the road appeared rundown and dilapidated. Many of them seemed to be vacant, with graffiti-covered walls. As they passed through the neighborhood, Dade noticed the peculiar look on Dragov's face when he squinted at the windows. "See something interesting?" Dade asked, noticing Dragov's furrowed brow and intense gaze.
"What's with the window dressings?" Dragov inquired, his tone betraying a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.
Dade, his voice tinged with bitterness, elucidated for Dragov the grim reality of the neighborhood's economic struggles. "Well, the average income around here ain't much to write home about. Most folks work in nearby factories or take up low-paying service gigs just to make ends meet. But the young ones take the biggest gamble, dreaming of Hollywood and all its glitz. Little do they know the risks they're taking, facing exploitation and dashed hopes. As for those window decorations you've spotted, they were part of some harebrained scheme cooked up by the city fathers. They hired local artists, thinking a little beautification would attract investment and magically uplift the community. But it was all wishful thinking because the deeper problems of poverty and despair run too deep for a coat of paint to fix."
As they leave the town behind and journey toward the city's outskirts, they pass by a towering billboard emblazoned with the slogan Peace, Justice, Kindness, and Brotherhood -- It's the California Way! "And don't buy into that," Dade said, his tone serious as he commented on the billboard's message. "The reality is far from what they're selling. Californians, especially in these parts, are more concerned about themselves than peace, justice, kindness, or brotherhood. It's a dog-eat-dog world out here, with everyone looking out for number one. People will step on each other just to get ahead, and kindness is often seen as a weakness. Trust me, you'll see the true colors of this place soon enough."
As they arrived at the little zoo on the outskirts of Pineville, Dade and Dragov were greeted by a modest entrance adorned with colorful signs depicting various exotic animals. They purchased their tickets from a booth adorned with faded paint, before passing through the turnstiles and entering the zoo grounds. The cages, though clean, appeared somewhat outdated, with rusted bars and weathered signs indicating the inhabitants within. Dragov was particularly fascinated by the majestic lion, its mane flowing in the breeze as it lounged in the sun-dappled enclosure. They moved on to observe the playful antics of the gorillas, the stealthy prowling of the leopards, and the regal posture of the bobcats. The seals and otters provided a splash of whimsy with their graceful movements in the water. They also catch a magic show, which Dragov watched with a mixture of skepticism and intrigue. However, it was at the reptile house that Dragov's demeanor shifted, as he cringed at the sight of the alligators, recognizing them as formidable adversaries not to be trifled with. As his gaze fell upon a tank containing a large South American anaconda, his mind drew parallels to Pescadero, envisioning it as a snake pit where danger lurked beneath the surface. He noticed an attractive woman tending to the creatures, her graceful movements juxtaposed against the ominous presence of the reptiles.
The main attraction of the zoo was a towering statue of a Woolly Mammoth, carved from solid granite and standing as a testament to the ancient giants that once roamed the Earth. A weathered plaque at the statue's base explained that the artist was inspired by the fossilized remains discovered in the nearby hills, providing a glimpse into a long-lost world. As Dade and Dragov gazed up at the mammoth, they were filled with awe and wonder, imagining the vast landscapes of the prehistoric era and the majestic creatures that inhabited them. The mammoth's imposing presence evoked images of ice age tundras, towering glaciers, and the raw power of nature in its primeval state. It served as a reminder of the Earth's rich history and the mysteries that lay buried beneath its surface.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Reed-Henry said. "Hard not to be awed by its sheer size and craftsmanship." Dragov, standing beside him near the base of the mammoth statue, nods in agreement, silently marveling at the monument before them. "That's why I asked Tom to bring you here. I wanted you to see this, to understand the beast we're up against. Pescadero isn't just a hospital; it's a fortress. They have more men guarding those patients than a small army platoon. And behind the bureaucratic facade, they operate with military precision."
Dragov looked around for the Harborview traffic cop but he had moved away.
"The truth is," Reed-Henry continued, "Hollywood celebrities like Mischa Barton are a symbol of power and privilege. While the general public idolizes them, those in power often see them as disposable pawns in a larger game. Judges are eager to imprison them not just for their crimes but also to send a message to the masses. There's resentment among common men towards actors, perhaps because their wealth and glamour serve as a reminder of a world that can never be theirs. It's envy mixed with disdain, a potent cocktail of emotions fueled by the unreachable allure of fame and fortune."
"And why does this concern a CIA agent?" Dragov asked.
Reed-Henry frowned slightly. "In a word: oil. Lord Barton's influence over OPEC could spell havoc for global economies, and the CIA can't afford to ignore that," he said gently. He leaned in, his tone grave as he outlined the English nobleman's intricate web of influence. "Think of OPEC as America's pain, and Lord Barton as its architect. Those Arab oil princes? They're not immune to his sway. If Lord Barton can't retrieve his daughter through conventional means, he might just convince the Arabs to tighten the oil spigot. You know what that means for American drivers, don't you? It means long lines at the gas pump, skyrocketing prices, and a nation held hostage by its thirst for fuel."
"You Americans are all the same—everything comes down to oil!" Dragov blustered.
Reed-Henry stood near the monolithic statue, close enough to be within its shadow, as he continued speaking to Dragov. "I heard you had a brush with Kazakov again," he said. "My superiors are quite upset about that."
"I felt it better to deal ruthlessly with him. I need a clear run at Pescadero without Kazakov interfering. If he should harass me again could I look to the CIA for help?"
"Negative," Reed-Henry said. "You're on your own, you know that. We're unable to assist you in any way and I have to tell you that law enforcement isn't involved in this at all. Tom's doing me a favor in a private capacity. There's not many people I can trust with something as sensitive as this, not even in the Agency."
"How much power has Kazakov got?" Dragov asked. "I haven't been sure up to now what I'm up against."
"He has a great deal of power and a great deal of influence globally. Kazakov was more than just a defector; he was a key figure in the Shadow Syndicate, a clandestine organization working for the highest bidder. The Soviets groomed him as an independent operative, using him as a paymaster and quartermaster to leftist terrorists and guerrillas. By the early '70s, he had established a formidable cell in Europe, serving as a main artery of supply for top terrorist organizations like the Red Army Faction, the IRA, and the Red Brigades, among others.
"The terror network that he helped to build across Western Europe had an inner and an outer circle. In the outer circle were groups like the Red Army Faction, the IRA, and the Red Brigades. But the real danger lay in the inner circle. Kazakov had ties to small leftist guerrilla groups operating in Latin America, Asia, Turkey, Greece, and Italy. These groups, like the Tupamaros, the Shining Path, and the November 17 Organization, were highly volatile and unpredictable. And then there was the group Kazakov himself founded and controlled: the Vorhut der Revolutionären Gerechtigkeit.
"The groups in the inner circle orchestrated a series of deadly attacks, including bombings, assassinations, and hijackings, spanning across countries such as Italy, Greece, Turkey, and several nations in Latin America and Asia. Their actions have left a trail of destruction and fear, sowing chaos and instability wherever they struck. However, the tide is slowly turning against them, as their violent tactics are increasingly met with condemnation and resistance. But Kazakov's position is so secure that even the most ruthless of the Eastern Intelligence agencies can't replace him for fear of losing contact with the extreme leftwing terror groups, so they're stuck with a dying man who refuses, for his own safety, to groom a successor.
"I've told you his illness is causing him to make serious mistakes which we're acting on. And the Eastern Bloc is in a quandary as to what to do about it at the moment. But for all that," Reed-Henry said grimly, "he's still a very dangerous man to cross. It would be impossible for you to penetrate his guards---and even if you did, our side couldn't let you kill him."
Dragov was silent for a few moments. It occurred to him that, Barton apart, somehow Reed-Henry intended to use him against Kazakov, and the realization of just how isolated he was in America struck home. They turned and began to walk back through the zoo. The tops of the trees seemed to touch the sky.
"The Cold War isn't just a struggle between two superpowers; it's a battle for the soul of the world. If the USSR prevails, every nation, including the USA, will fall under the shadow of communism, controlled by Moscow. Individual freedoms will vanish, replaced by oppressive regimes and ruthless dictators. It's a world none of us want to live in. But I digress. Did you manage to follow the convoy?"
"Yes."
"Successfully?"
"Yes."
"How will you do it?"
"I could use Silverwood. It's strategically located, overlooking the highway along the route. It offers perfect cover for a possible ambush."
"Absolutely," Reed-Henry agreed, nodding. "Silverwood would be an ideal spot. I'm with you one hundred percent on that."
"I need a contact inside Pescadero," Dragov stated firmly. "Someone who can feed me information and maybe even lend a hand if needed."
"I can arrange that," Reed-Henry affirmed. "Our contact will be Manuel, a male nurse with a background in espionage. He's been disillusioned with the system for years, and he's married to Marta, a fellow nurse who shares his sentiments."
"It's risky, but it might just work," Dragov contemplated. "We'll switch Mischa Barton with a deceased girl who matches her age and description. With some careful preparation and timing, we might be able to buy ourselves a few crucial hours."
"We're up against the clock here," Reed-Henry cautioned. "You might have only four hours before someone demands an autopsy. It'll take some time to assemble a forensic team, but the real challenge lies in getting Barton out of Pescadero, then out of Harborview, and finally out of California. However, if you manage to get her clear of the convoy, the CIA will actively assist you in that. You can count on us; it would be extremely embarrassing if the real Mischa Barton turned up in downtown L.A."
"How would you do it?" Dragov asked.
"We can lift her out of Silverwood by helicopter," Reed-Henry suggested. "But we need to ensure it's marked and manned discreetly to avoid attracting attention."
"I don't see how that's possible," Dragov replied, his skepticism evident in his tone.
"Leave the critical planning to the Agency," Reed-Henry instructed Dragov firmly. "My request to you is to devise an ambush in which the least number of people are harmed. I have to return to Langley, Virginia, the CIA's main office, for a few days, but I'll be back promptly." He hastily scribbled a phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Dragov. "Call me up at this number. Use a phone booth and set up a meeting in a public place. Keep it casual, and keep your conversation short. The wrong people might be listening."
Reed-Henry and Dragov met Tom Dade at the exit gate of the zoo, where they found him leaning casually against the wrought iron fence, his gaze scanning the crowd. Dade's presence exuded an air of authority mingled with street-smart vigilance. As Reed-Henry and Dragov approached, Dade straightened up, acknowledging them with a nod and a slight smile. His demeanor was relaxed yet alert, the embodiment of someone who had seen his fair share of action.
"I'm glad you two are finished," he said. "You owe me for this," he said to Reed-Henry who nodded.
"Tom will take you home," he said to Dragov. "I've got a plane to catch."
In the car on the way back, they passed by a sprawling marijuana field, its lush green leaves swaying gently in the breeze. The field stretched as far as the eye could see, a vibrant sea of foliage punctuated by the occasional flash of colorful flowers. The pungent aroma of the plants permeated the air, adding a heady quality to the surroundings.
Dade remarked sarcastically, "Looks like we stumbled upon California's number one cash crop. Hollywood sure loves its greens."
Dragov replied assuredly, "Don't worry, I'll steer clear of it like the plague."
He dropped Dragov off near the Harborview Lighthouse.
"Listen," he said as Dragov got out of the car. "Whoever you are, I'm starting to like you. Have you ever heard of the 19th-century Russian socialist, Sergei Nechaev, and his book 'Catechism of a Revolutionary'? He was credited as the father of modern terrorism: in his view, if the end goal is deemed morally right or beneficial, then any means necessary to accomplish it are justified, regardless of whether they are ethical or acceptable. I know Mr. Kazakov is cut from that cloth and Reed-Henry doesn't care much for the welfare of his fellow men if they get in his way. You've probably figured out you're swimming in a shark tank, so watch your back."546Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN70CgVvGp3
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At 8:00 p.m. that evening Dragov made the call. A man answered.
"It's Dragov," he said briefly. "Get me Kazakov."
He waited.
"Mr. Dragov," Kazakov said tiredly when he lifted the receiver, "I'm a sick man, this is a great inconvenience. What do you want?"
"A meeting."
"Why should I meet with you, Dragov? You have killed three of my men."
"I have something to offer you."
Kazakov passed. "Very well then, where?"
"I want to meet you at the abandoned church on Mariposa Street in precisely one hour."
"That's too soon, I would have no time to prepare."
"That's precisely why I want you at the abandoned church on Mariposa Street in one hour, Mr. Kazakov," Dragov said.
The abandoned church on Mariposa Street stood like a forgotten sentinel, its once-grand facade now weather-beaten and crumbling. Situated on the edge of Harborview, the church lay between the struggling industrial district to the north and the more affluent residential area to the south. As the big black Chevy pulled up, its tires crunched on the gravel, echoing in the silent street. Dragov stood by the entrance of the church, a lone figure amidst the fading light of dusk, his gaze steady as the car door swung open.
"Get in, Mr. Dragov," Kazakov called from the dark interior of the car.
Dragov shook his head. "I would feel more comfortable if we were both on the street," he said.
Before Kazakov could press the issue Dragov indicated the men who, in ones and twos, were appearing out of the church's doorways and at the ends of the streets. Etienne Dubois and Zoltan had drilled them well; the Mexicans took up their positions and waited. Kazakov's bodyguards were impressed by the show of force and fidgeted nervously with their weapons.
Kazakov eased himself out of the car. Dragov watched the pale face with its hollow cheeks and glittering sunken eyes approach him.
"Mr. Dragov," Kazakov said, barely containing his anger, "you seem to have extraordinary powers of survival. Your return to this hick town in the middle of nowhere surprises me." He looked around at the Mexicans who were lounging on the street corners and leaning up against the side of the church. "And now you seem to have found yourself some friends."
"Three of your men have died. It's important that you no longer dismiss me as an amateur. If you send any more of your men after me, I'll kill them as well."
"Mr. Dragov," Kazakov snapped, betraying a little of his bitterness for the death of three of his men, "I can tell you that I respect your professionalism enough not to waste any more of my men on you. I have merely to notify the KGB and they can send their operatives to claim the price on your head for themselves."
"That's partly my reason for calling you to this meeting," Dragov said quietly. "Mr. Kazakov, I think I have found a way to rescue Mischa Barton."
Kazakov was silent for a few moments. He turned and led Dragov away, out of possible earshot from the car.
"I want you to consider something," Kazakov said, his voice smooth and calculated. "Now, if you have a plan to extract Mischa Barton, then I would like her in my possession. Lord Barton's influence with the Arab oil magnates is of particular interest to me. I could use it as leverage over him. And the repercussions on oil production could be significant. And believe me, Dragov, I would pay you handsomely for her." He paused, fixing Dragov with a piercing gaze. "But what I want to know is this: why would you, a man who only works for one master at a time, consider switching sides?"
"If I guarantee to deliver Ms. Barton to you then I want a free run, without any interference on your part, in America. Secondly, on the day I hand her over I want to know that the KGB has lifted the price off my head. I can tell you that it will not be an easy favor to deliver."
"Why?"
"Because I killed a lot of their men. The reason that I'm making this deal with you is because I know the extent of their organization. As I go on now it's only a matter of time before they find and kill me. Concerning my survival I have no masters, I'm working for myself."
Kazakov's research bore out Dragov's statements. He thought he could see what was driving the man.
"Your life for Mischa Barton's?" he mused. "It seems a fair exchange. Of course, you understand I want Ms. Barton alive," Kazakov said. "She would be useless to me dead."
"Agreed."
"When could you deliver her?"
"I'm not sure yet, I think the first two weeks of February."
"I don't suppose you wish to tell me how it could be done?"
"No, the whole operation must be left entirely up to me. That's one of my conditions."
Kazakov leaned forward slightly, his eyes probing. "And what will your cover be?"
Dragov shrugged casually. "I'll just blend in with the locals," he replied with a nonchalant air.
"I'll see to it that you're left unhindered by any leftwing elements in California. When you deliver Ms. Barton to me I'll use my influence with the KGB, which is considerable, to persuade them that memories of old times should be laid to rest."
Kazakov climbed back into the car.
"Good luck, Mr. Dragov," he said. "I'll keep in touch."
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