An agent from the Central Intelligence Agency had fostered a relationship, a friendship, with the young son of Russian emigrants.
Dimitri, a recently certified Mitsubishi automobile mechanic in Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey, had specifically been requested to work on the blue Mitsubishi towed in for transmission repairs.
Dimitri glanced at the clock again, his vision becoming slightly blurred in the alcoholic stupor. One twenty-five.
His nerves were slowly relaxing with the aid of 100-proof vodka.
Thinking back on his adventure, Dimitri realized he had been very naive. Oh, what he would give to be Leonid Vochik again. A simple, happy mechanic residing in New Jersey.
His customer, and later, his friend “Phil” had ridden with him when the necessary transmission repairs had been completed on the Mitsubishi.
Phil had suggested they stop for a beer, noting it was past closing time at the dealership. Dimitri eagerly accepted the invitation since Phil offered to drop him at his apartment. The agent had known Dimitri didn’t own a car and rode the bus to work.
After a couple of beers, Phil said he had two tickets to the Yankees game the following evening, and asked if Dimitri would care to join him.
The young Russian emigrant, who had not cultivated many new friends, was ecstatic that his American friend would ask him to a big league baseball game.
Afterwards, over beers again, Phil told Dimitri he was a salesman (true, Dimitri reflected with irony) and traveled in the northeast sector of the United States.
Phil genuinely liked the young Russian. That bond had solidified their friendship and Phil suggested a fishing trip the next weekend to his father’s private lake and cabin. Again, Dimitri was full of gratitude and anticipation.
The weather, fishing, and friendly banter had been great that Sunday afternoon. Phil had inquired about Dimitri’s background, his immigrant parents, and what he felt in regard to the United States.
Dimitri had described the horrors his parents, classified as dissenters, had suffered at the hands of the Russian KGB officers. He had told, in detail, about the suffering his father had endured in Christopol prison and the relentless interrogations at KGB headquarters in the basement of the Lubyanka.
He had explained why he hated the Russian political system and widespread corruption. He confessed to Phil, after several beers, that he was embarrassed by his Russian heritage. Dimitri expressed love for America and thankfulness for the opportunities in his new land.
Phil had listened intently and suggested that Dimitri meet a friend of his who could offer him an unusual opportunity. Dimitri had been taken aback and remained very excited for three days prior to the meeting with Phil’s friend.
The friend, who was in charge of CIA clandestine “mole” operations, was straightforward with Dimitri. The former Marine lieutenant colonel introduced himself, explained his authority and position, revealed the true identity of Phil, and carefully outlined the opportunity he had for one Leonid Timofeyevich Vochik. The young emigrant would be known henceforth as Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, if he accepted the dangerous assignment.
The chief of CIA clandestine operations explained that Dimitri would go to work for the agency as an undercover operative in the heart of the Kremlin. He had been shown photos of the Russian worker he would change places with. Dimitri had been shocked by the apparent twin brother staring back.
The similarities had been incredible, a “clone” to the casual observer. The only differences had been blood type, twenty-three months in age, one-quarter inch in height, and the faint scar on Vochik’s lower right jaw.
The Central Intelligence Agency, Dimitri had been informed, had searched for seventeen months to find a Russian-speaking clone, one who could be trusted, for this crucial assignment. The agency was willing to pay quite handsomely for his services.
The CIA chief reiterated the importance of the operation, explained the Federal Bureau of Investigation background check conducted without Dimitri’s knowledge, the salary, benefits, and rewards at the completion of the mission. He also detailed the guarantee of anonymity and relocation to the western United States after his extraction from Moscow in five years.
The chief agent, along with Phil, who would remain a friend and be in charge of the operation, told Dimitri they needed an answer in twenty-four hours. Period.
They also indicated that Dimitri would need minor cosmetic surgery to eliminate the scar and to flatten his nose slightly.
In addition, Phil explained, three months of intensive and exhaustive training, six and a half days a week, would be required.
Leonid Vochik would become Dimitri Karpov through mimicry and emulation of tapes and recordings of Karpov obtained by highly sophisticated intelligence gathering equipment.
Dimitri looked at his alarm again. One fifty-six. He crushed the empty pack of cigarettes, reached into his top dresser drawer, felt toward the back, and retrieved another pack. Dimitri flicked open the Proshinsky cigarette lighter, staring at the inscription as the flaming tobacco sent smoke curling around him. He recalled the evening Svetlana had given him the lighter, precisely one month after they had become lovers.
Inhaling the acrid smoke, Dimitri thought back to his decision to join the CIA operation. The money, lifetime security (providing he lived through his commitment), and the desire to be respected in the United States. If only he could take Svetlana, the only woman he had ever loved, home with him to his country, America.
The reality of the danger involved, the high-risk factor had not focused for Dimitri until he was in the counterfeit Soviet tractor-trailer leaving Sweden for the Russian border via Finland.
The truck, in fact, had been stolen from the Russian state trucking line, Sovtrans. The Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye (GRU), Soviet military intelligence, had used the vehicle for spying on NATO training exercises and maneuvers off the island of Musko, Sweden’s most important naval base.
Dimitri had been extensively briefed about his insertion into Russia and the Kremlin headquarters. Taking advantage of the Transport International Routier (TIR) agreement that guarantees sealed trucks customs-free transit en route to final destinations in Eastern bloc countries, the CIA could safely blend Dimitri into Russia near Leningrad.
Dimitri had posed as a codriver learning a new route. The “driver,” a CIA operative, had been the leader of the mission and familiar with the route.
The Soviet tractor-trailer had a new serial number, side numbers, and license — all numbers that corresponded to a truck then in operation by the Russians. It would be in their computer.
From Leningrad, Dimitri and his driver had traveled to Vologda, four hundred kilometers northeast of Moscow, to await the train carrying the real Dimitri Karpov.
Dimitri Karpov, trusted Kremlin domestic, traveled by train twice a year to see his aging mother. His father died when he was a child and his mother had never remarried. She was in poor health and nearly blind.
Tatianna Karpov wasn’t expected to live long, and, if she did, she would most likely not recognize the difference in her clone son. The replacement son had practiced speaking precisely like the real Dimitri Karpov and had memorized his life history, along with the family tree.
The trips were predictable and always occurred in early fall and the later part of spring. Karpov traveled from Moscow to the village of Yemetsk, on the shore of the Northern Dvina River, via the city of Vologda. He always stayed in Yemetsk two to three days and returned to Moscow on the evening train.
Dimitri lighted another cigarette and looked at the clock again. Two seventeen. He inhaled the rich smoke and thought about how easily the switch had been made.
The agent/driver had waited for a call from an operative in Moscow when Karpov departed for Yemetsk, then boarded the train during the stop in Vologda.