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  ALSO BY R.D. ZIMMERMAN

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  And by R.D. Zimmerman writing as Robert Alexander

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  The Cross and the Sickle

  A Novel by

  R.D. Zimmerman

  ScribblePub

  Minneapolis, MN

  the most original of the original™

  The Cross and the Sickle

  Copyright © 1983 by R.D. Zimmerman

  MOBI ISBN: 978-1-61-446015-2

  EPUB ISBN: 978-1-61-446014-5

  Published in the United States of America

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the authors or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  In memory of my dad, Charles Wacker Zimmerman

  The Cross and the Sickle

  PROLOGUE

  New York City, May 1978

  Vladimir Pavlovich Zamyatin spent the majority of his free time in America eating. When the Soviet diplomat was not on duty at the United Nations, he could usually be found combing the streets of New York City for yet another novel, edible item. It was in this way that Vladimir Pavlovich passed the lonely hours, for food eased the pain of being separated from his darling wife, Lidochka, who remained behind in their expansive Moscow apartment. It was also in this way that instructions for his covert activities were communicated to him.

  Accustomed to an earthy diet, Vladimir Pavlovich thought Americans ate far too many fresh fruits and vegetables, and dismissed American bread as little more than spun chemicals. He prided himself on being open-minded, however, and was quite willing to try anything he could swallow. Big Macs were his favorite food discovery since his arrival in New York, though he considered the ubiquitous sauce a trifle too sweet. He also liked chili dogs, and the best one he had found was served at a food stand on the corner of Fifty-fourth and Lexington. He had also developed a particular weakness for fresh, hot donuts, and without a doubt all of his clothes—his one black suit, his other coat, his two pairs of pants, and his three shirts—had recently developed stretch marks.

  Zamyatin left the United Nations on a pleasant May afternoon under the pretense of going out for a short stroll and a bite to eat. Some twenty minutes later, satisfied that he was not being followed, he came to a cheerful white and yellow food stand. Hot pretzels. His eyes widened.

  “Please to give,” he said, raising a single finger. “One.”

  The vendor, a thick black mustache curling into his mouth, reached for the tongs.

  “Have you no beer?” asked Zamyatin. “It's a pleasant day for a beer.”

  The vendor, without so much as glancing at Zamyatin, recognized the words. Offering their counterpart, he said, “No beer. Only soft drinks, ice cold just for you.”

  The Russian's frown gave way to a condescending smile. “Then please to give one pretzel and that is all.”

  “As you like.” He reached below for the napkin.

  Zamyatin received his pretzel, squirted mustard all over it, took a large bite, and was on his way again. A quarter of a block later he slipped the concealed car key from under the pretzel. Then he dabbed the corners of his mouth with the napkin and noted the address, which was faintly written in pencil. Cramming the remainder of the food into his mouth, he pitched the paper into an overflowing garbage can, and reached the indicated parking ramp several minutes later.

  Most of the other drops had been made along the Garden State Parkway. This one was in Darien, Connecticut, and the trip took Zamyatin twice as long as it should have with all his sudden turns and double-tracking. He proceeded only when it was perfectly obvious that he wasn't being tailed and he arrived in the small town just before four in the afternoon. Slowing in front of the Baskin-Robbins ice cream store, he winced when the driver behind him honked with incessant irritation. He put on the emergency flashers and stopped. Two large men in their mid-thirties, Stugachevsky and Polovko, rushed out of the store. They threw their ice cream cones to the ground and hopped into the car.

  “Problems?” asked Zamyatin, maneuvering the Ford into the stream of traffic.

  “Nyet.” Stugachevsky passed Polovko the paper towel.

  “Thanks,” muttered the other, wiping his mouth. “You're late.”

  “There was a lot of traffic. You know these Americans and their automobiles.” Zamyatin lied. His last detour had taken him through the drive-in lane at MacDonald's and the service had been terribly slow.

  Two miles later Vladimir Pavlovich turned into a dilapidated suburban shopping center and drove to the phone booth in the far corner. Routinely—this was their sixth such venture—Stugachevsky reached into the back seat for the red coffee can and Polovko removed the envelope from the glove compartment.

  Stugachevsky was already out the door and hurrying toward the phone booth by the time the car had stopped. He deposited the coins, dialed the number, and hung up after two rings. Leaving the coffee can and the envelope on the grimy floor—the can containing four thousand dollars, the envelope instructions for the next drop—they trotted back to the car. The trio was on their way again within the moment.

  Zamyatin drove to the other end of the shopping center and parked by the last store. He looked across the deteriorating pavement and spotted the crumpled milk carton at the base of a telephone pole. It appeared to be nothing more than litter on the side of a busy road.

  “There it is,” he said.

  Stugachevsky and Polovko clambered out and went in opposite directions. Several minutes later, assured by discreet nods from the two men that all was safe, Zamyatin also got out. Ignoring the drone of a distant highway, he listened to the carefree chirping of a handful of birds as he calmly walked to the milk carton. He loved nature and yearned for his little dacha outside of Moscow. Daydreaming of his wife and cottage, he was shocked at how uncomfortable it was to bend over and pick up the carton. Could he have gained more weight?

  Seated once again behind the wheel of the car, Vladimir Pavlovich, unable to restrain himself any further, shook the carton. A soft rattle came from inside and he smirked. He adored success, particularly when so little effort was required. Prying open the carton with his stubby fingers, he was hit with the strong stench of sour milk. His delight could not be so easily muffled, however, for inside seemed to be just what the American had promised: the schematic diagrams of the acoustic system the U.S. Navy used to identify Soviet submarines.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, a shadow moved. Frightened, he crammed the diagrams back in the container. Zamyatin lurched for the ignition just as a large fist pounded on the car window—once, twice, three times.

  “Okay, buddy, you can get out nice and easy. We don't want
a scene now, do we?”

  Vladimir jerked his head to the left, to the right. He covered his mouth with his fat fingers and gasped when he saw Stugachevsky and Polovko being led away by four F.B.I. agents.

  Zamyatin had diplomatic immunity and was swiftly returned to the U.S.S.R. Stugachevsky and Polovko, as minor Soviet employees of the United Nations, lacked this protection and were punishable according to U.S. laws. Under orders from the new and righteous White House administration, a longstanding gentlemen's agreement was broken and the two Soviets were indicted by a grand jury.

  Moscow, June l978

  One warm evening, Frank and Judy Korman came down from their apartment and got in their brown Camaro. Leaving the fenced parking lot reserved for Americans working in the U.S.S.R.—he was the IBM representative and she was with the embassy—Frank waved as they passed the armed Soviet guard posted at the gate.

  “Have you ever noticed that he kind of looks like your Uncle Mike?”

  “Yeah, I suppose he does.” Judy looked out the rear window and saw the soldier picking up the telephone in the guardhouse.

  Going to a cocktail party, he turned north on Ordynka Street and was halted by a red light several intersections later. On the sidewalk to their right was a long line of over a hundred Russians filing out of Meat Store Number 103. As always, people gawked when they drove the gleaming metallic brown Chevy through the streets. This summer night was no exception. Word buzzed up and down the queue, and one by one heads turned and voices whispered about the beautiful foreign car. Babushkas—grandmothers—their heads covered with scarves, cosmopolitan Moscow housewives in their fashionable American “jeanzie,” and men in their dark, baggy garb all craned for a better view. Soon the attention of the entire line was focused not on how many people were waiting nor if there would be enough meat to go around, but on Frank and Judy's sleek American automobile.

  Sometimes Judy shocked Russians by waving as they admired the car. Sometimes she put on a cassette tape and played music loudly. This time, however, she just wanted to get to the cocktail party, have a Scotch, eat some nachos, and do what Moscow embassy people do best: pretend they are not in the Soviet Union.

  “Just once,” said Judy, sinking in her seat, “I'd like to go out in public and not be gawked at as if I were from Mars.”

  The light turned green and he accelerated like a teenager trying to impress his high school friends. Speeding along, they passed through one of Moscow's oldest quarters.

  Admiring the ancient buildings with crumbling baroque detail and faded paint, Judy said, “With a little renovation this could be Moscow's trendiest section.”

  “Oh, come on…” His attitude toward the Soviet Union had been slipping for some time. “I'm sure these places don't even have indoor plumbing and I'd bet you anything the people who live here are dying to get out.”

  They crossed one bridge, another, and the Kremlin magically filled the horizon.

  Frank was quick. “Spare me. Don't tell me how beautiful you think it is,” he said, pointing to the imposing fortress of the tsars above the Moscow River. “Granted, all those steeples and their silly golden onion domes are impressive, but… but what about that?” He gestured to the enormous Rossiya Hotel. “Hideous!”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, brushing off the remark.

  They passed through the center of Moscow and headed for Leningrad Prospect. Heads turned, people stared; it was impossible for them to go out without being noticed. They hit another light.

  “Damn. I'm missing them all tonight.”

  A husky man, his attention focused on them, stepped off the curb and hurried around the back of the car.

  “Shit,” said Frank, his eyes on the rearview mirror. “I'm going to get a Soviet car just so people will leave us alone.”

  Judy laughed. “I'll bet.”

  The stillness of the empty Moscow street was suddenly destroyed. Making a powerful arc in their direction, a black sedan roared around the corner and barreled down on the Chevy.

  Rubber tore against pavement in a painful squeal as the sedan braked, but it failed to come to a complete halt until its metal grill gently collided against the Camaro's rubber bumper.

  “What the hell…” said Frank, stunned by the jolt.

  He and his wife tensed as if they had just touched a live wire. Speechless, they watched as another Soviet car sped in from a side street, focused on them, and came to a noisy halt only inches away. A handful of muscular men jumped out of each vehicle.

  “Oh, shit,” said Frank, his fingers in a deathly lock on the steering wheel.

  The husky man who had been on the sidewalk raced along the side of the car and threw open Frank's door. The sounds of the other Russians rapidly converged on Frank and Judy.

  “We're Americans!” yelled Judy. “Leave us alone!” She slammed down the door lock.

  The squad of Soviet men reached the Chevrolet and a mass of thick, threatening hands reached in and grabbed hold of Frank Korman.

  “Get your fucking hands off me!” More shocked than frightened, he let go of the wheel and tried to fight back.

  Several of the men latched onto his left arm; Frank hung onto the steering wheel with his right. One of them hit him in the jaw and Frank's grip loosened. Three Russians tugged on him and one by one his fingers slipped off the wheel. They pulled his writhing torso out of the car.

  “Judy!”

  She dove on top of his leg and wrapped her body around it. “Get away! We're Americans! Amerikantsi!” she screamed.

  One of them extended an arm into the Camaro and toward her. She lost hold of her husband and they dragged him out, struggling and fighting even though he was already defeated. With the way now free, the Russian climbed into the car and shot an open hand toward Judy. She pulled herself back and cowered against the door.

  “Get away!” She couldn't remember an obscenity in Russian. “You son of a bitch, we're Americans! Amerikantsi!” She raised her foot and plunged it at his face.

  From outside she heard the racket of a desperate commotion. Through the windshield she saw a half-dozen Russian men trying to restrain her husband.

  “Frank!” she cried.

  His arms held back by two men, he twisted and yelled. He threw his head back and tried to lift a leg. A fist was raised above the group and then plunged into Frank Korman's stomach. Gasping for air, Korman doubled over and emitted a high-pitched squeal. The Russians, their target now quite manageable, tossed the American into the back seat of the waiting sedan.

  Judy realized that the man in the car was trying to get the keys from the ignition.

  “No!” she said, ramming her heel into the back of his hand.

  “Sukka!” he yelled.

  Full of rage, he lifted his fist back. He closed in on her and was about to strike when his commanding officer called him. Resentfully obeying orders, the man scowled at Judy as he withdrew, rubbing his wounded hand. He backed out of the Camaro and then ran to the black sedan. The shrill sound of spinning tires pierced the air even before his door was shut.

  It was over.

  Judy Korman sat alone in her Camaro on a deserted Moscow street, the car door wide open. Her husband was gone, torn from the car, stuffed into another, and whisked away. Trembling and fighting back tears, she crawled into the driver's seat, shut the door and started the engine. Reflexively, she headed directly for the American Embassy on the Sadovoye Ring, fully aware that she hadn't been taken because, as part of the embassy, she had diplomatic immunity. Her husband, however, as an employee of an American corporation, lacked this protection.

  I

  Kiev, September 1978

  Elizaveta was reminded of her age whenever she unwittingly glanced at a calendar or, as she occasionally did, picked up a newspaper. Born three months after the turn of the century, she was confronted by her age each time she noticed what year it was. This had never upset her, however, and now, fully aware that she was in the final stage of her life, she had never be
en happier. It was not that morbidity had overwhelmed her, but that she felt a triumphant sense of peace with the world; she had survived World War I, the Russian Revolution, Stalin, and World War II, and the white-haired Russian woman knew she had accomplished a great deal. Soon her largest task in life would be complete. It was difficult for her to imagine this… that after all these years she would succeed. She was overcome with relaxation, with warmth, with sadness.

  Elizaveta, whose round merry face was aged not with wrinkles but with sagging pockets of soft flesh, sat in an ancient monastic catacomb deep beneath the city of Kiev. There were miles of such forgotten catacombs, tunnels, and caverns in the city's hills overlooking the Dneiper River, and Elizaveta knew them well for they had safeguarded her and kept secret her work. She thought of her widowed father, a Russian Orthodox priest, and of how proud he would have been of his little Liza. He had been dead almost sixty years now, shot for his religious convictions soon after the Revolution. This had been his room.

  Elizaveta raised her deep-set eyes. His room. Dozens of beeswax candles flickered, showering the craggy rock walls with dancing light and giving life to the icons all around her. This had been her father's private cell, his secret place of worship, passed on to him like a great gift from his religious instructor and mentor. It was here, in a forgotten chamber of the catacombs—a room roughly the size of a large living room—that he had buried himself away for days and weeks at a time seeking spiritual solace and understanding.

  Cranking her stiff neck, she looked over her right shoulder. One. Two. Three. Then, grunting, over her left shoulder. Four. Five. Six. Six decaying coffins. Tucked neatly into the roughly sculpted arches of the caves, they held the rotted remains of nearly all the priests and monks who had used these chambers over the past two hundred and fifty years. How comforting, she thought.