The next day, “Zastrozhnaya” returned to the train station and headed south to Aleksandrov. The train ride was pleasant enough. His two-day stay at the Hotel Ukraina was even better. He visited the town, which was his namesake. It had a fascinating history. In the 16th century, Aleksandrov was the unofficial capital of the Russian State under Tsar Ivan IV, a man better known as Ivan the Terrible. For years, the city was recognized as the Russian Versailles, the home of great royal treasures. It was also noted for its prisons, and the horrors its inhabitants endured. Dubroff lost himself in the history and the remarkable Italian architecture. He visited Aleksandrovskaya Sloboda, the Tsar’s former residence and one-time Kremlin, which now served as a museum and nunnery. He avoided conversations with locals, keeping a keen eye out for anyone possibly following him. To the best of his knowledge, no one was.
On the third day, Dubroff continued the remaining 112 kilometers to Moscow, just under two hours. He still traveled as Zastrozhnaya; Aleksandr Dubroff had completely disappeared. Here he checked into the Sovietsky Hotel, a ten-minute drive from Red Square. He booked a third-floor room facing Lenningradsky Prospect. He regularly peered outside through the break in the two drapes to see if the Federal Security Service posted anyone across the street. Dubroff decided not to go out for another day. That should allow for enough time, the old agent thought.
“We lost him, sir.” The younger FSB agent was fidgety, and with good reason. He was facing Yuri Ranchenkov in the downtown offices of the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti at Lubyansky Proyezd. He was up enough on recent history to know that some of the people who entered these chambers never left. Life — or death — was returning to the buildings that once housed the KGB.
“He’s an 88-year-old pensioner! What do you mean you lost him?”
Sergei Ryabov explained what had happened. It didn’t go well.
“He tells someone he’s off to see a sick friend in Saint Petersburg. Does he book a train to St. Petersburg? Does he arrive there? No! Why? Because he had no intention of visiting a relative of his wife’s. None of his relatives, or his wife’s relatives, are still alive. It’s all in his fucking biography!” Ranchenkov threw it at the bungling agent. “If you had read it, you would have known!”
Ryabov stood at attention.
“He stopped somewhere. Bologoe? Chudovo? Tosno? Did you check for anyone bearing his description? Did you look in any other cities along the way?”
“No, sir.”
“He slipped through your fingers like sand. Will you remember that this man is a master at what he does? Even though he hasn’t practiced his craft for years, he hasn’t lost it. You better hope that you have a tenth of his ability if you are to make lieutenant…or live.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. Without asking, he knelt down to pick up the papers.
“You will find Aleksandr Dubroff before he is out of our reach. When you find him, you will report directly to me. You will not do anything on your own. That way, we shall discover what the traitor plans to do.”
Roarke followed President Taylor’s orders. He called his friend from the service. Shannon Davis was very much like Roarke, but blonde and two inches taller. While Roarke went into the Secret Service at Taylor’s behest, Davis joined the FBI. They remained close, and kept a running score of who broke the rules more. Right now, Scott Roarke was in the lead.
They figured if they fanned out from Washington, hitting the closest locations first, they could cover the country in two weeks.
The first stop was Maysville, Kentucky, a small town southeast of Cincinnati along the Ohio River. The subject was a high school football coach and history teacher. History was important to Maysville. The Underground Railroad, the pathway to freedom for many slaves, passed through Mason County, Kentucky.
After an hour’s observation, from the school to home, Roarke and Davis concluded they could cross the first man off the list. He was a model citizen with a great deal of responsibility and no time to take off.
They had a similar experience at another river town to the south. Their second suspect resided in Knoxville, Tennessee. He was a lineman for the phone company and one glance eliminated him. He’d put on thirty pounds since his years in the service. Apparently his acting career hadn’t worked out, either.
Next, Starkville, Mississippi. The two men split up, one checking out the subject at work, the other looking into his family. Bob McCallum looked like he might be their man. His flexible hours as a part-time cop made him suspect. Even more interesting was his work with the Starkville Community Theater. Roarke caught his picture on a poster for Arturo Ui. It made his skin crawl. He looked like Depp. He had the intensity and coldness Roarke had seen in person. His pulse quickened. The play was that night. He bought two tickets at the box office.
Meanwhile, Davis stopped by the police station, where he asked to talk to McCallum. He was told he wasn’t in. “He’s doin’ that weird play this week,” the desk sergeant reported.
“I was in the service with him. Just passing through,” Davis said. “I bet he hasn’t changed a bit.”
The police officer grimaced. “Guess you haven’t seen him in a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bob?”
“Yes.”
“He lost an eye. Cancer. Just awful for awhile, but he’s still at it. Say, what’s your name?”
“Ah, Davis.” Shannon had already backed up to the door. “Look, tell him hello. I’ll try to see him later.”
“I probably won’t catch him until later in the week.”
“That’ll be great. Thanks.”
Davis left and met Roarke at Cappes Steak House. Roarke was excited to see him. He had a copy of the poster with McCallum’s picture.
“I think we’ve got him. And guess what? He’s on stage tonight.” He produced two tickets.
“I hope you didn’t spend money on these,” Davis said.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Well, unless we’re looking for a one-eyed sharpshooter, I think we should order dinner and hit the road,” Davis explained.
“Damn!” Roarke uttered. He looked at the picture and let out a long sigh.
“Sorry, buddy. I’ll have the bureau double-check, but I think we’re three down, four to go.”
“Friends, here we are at a crossroads. General Bridgeman is going to go to Washington. Are you going with him? Arm-in-arm. Are you going to show the country that we don’t need an election year to be heard? That our voice counts right now? That the administration does not have your confidence and never had your vote?”
Elliott Strong added more timber to his speech. “General Robert Woodley Bridgeman supports you. Do you support him? One by one, members of Congress have contacted the good general since he made his announcement on this show. One by one, they are taking the time to listen to what he has to say. One by one, they are coming to believe that change must occur, and that three-and-a-half years away is too long.”