His was a photographic memory in many ways. But as Dave Pratt had once pointed out, they were very strange ways. Cobb’s mastery of languages was incredible, right down to his ability to immerse himself in local dialect. He could have crossed a minefield blindfolded once he had the opportunity to study its layout. The structure of Kremlin hierarchy, the layout of each office, and the names of each individual could have been committed to memory in an amazingly short time span. Pratt often said that Henry could have made a fortune if his mind had been channeled in the proper direction, but the prospect of making money had never occurred to Cobb.
He followed the dirt road for a short distance, mentally checking off the identifying features he’d selected days earlier. Turning into the hills on a path that appeared to have been a goat track, he began an easy climb, now heading in the direction of the moon sliver that was hovering just over his objective.
Below him stretched the Black Sea, occasional lights bobbing in the distance signifying fishing boats. Farther away he could see the glow of lights in the sky, hinting at a large city, Yalta. This was where the gentry of the Communist Party came to play in the summer — senior officials, scientists, managers, prominent Party members, and, most important, the generals and admirals. Their dachas were scattered over the hillsides that looked down into the warm, blue waters of the Black Sea. This part of the Crimea was the playground of those who made the USSR tick.
His objective was the dacha of General Keradin, the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces of the Soviet Union, that element of the Soviet Army that controlled the ICBMs. With an order from one man, Keradin, the most terrifying attack mankind had ever known, and perhaps the last it ever experienced, would be launched. This man was so powerful, so respected by those few who were senior to him, that he could come and go as he pleased. And in the summer he chose to spend much of his time at his dacha in the Crimea, less than two hours flying time from Moscow. It didn’t really matter where Keradin chose to locate himself, for the immense power of his command could be exercised in split seconds from wherever he happened to be.
General Keradin’s dacha was not only his escape but his hobby. The sweet dessert wines of the Soviet Crimea were his first love, his way of escaping the terrible responsibility of his position. The hillsides sweeping up and to the north were covered with vineyards that faced the Black Sea and the summer sun. Though the dacha and its many guest rooms were designed to house a staff ready to launch missiles at a moment’s notice, the real center of the estate was the wine-making barn, the heart and soul of Keradin’s obsession.
It was Keradin’s infatuation with wines that had precipitated a crash course in the art of winemaking for Henry Cobb. Whisked by a military jet to an Air Force base north of San Francisco, Cobb was met by the man who would be his teacher over the next five days. Very little surprised Cobb. Yet his host, the scion of a successful, family-owned vineyard, consistently astonished him during those days. As he struggled to acquire the knowledge that had come to one man in a lifetime, Cobb also learned that hatred spans generations. His mentor proudly acknowledged working for the CIA whenever he was in Europe promoting his rapidly growing industry. Cobb would later reflect that he learned more than he bargained for about his quarry during his whirlwind education.
The dacha was remarkably similar to his host’s homestead in the Napa Valley. White plastered walls reflected the sun and allowed the inside to remain cool even on the hottest days. A veranda stretched much of the length of the building so that the inhabitants could come out to socialize in the sun or find enough privacy to be on their own. The only real difference was the many individual balconies on the second floor, much like a tacky motel, Cobb thought. These were where the staff slept, each with his own room, a nice gesture by Keradin to keep his people happy.
There was also a security force. It was composed of military intelligence people from the GRU, and they were very good. The CIA also reported that Keradin was an extremely private man who did not appreciate the trappings of the military when he escaped to the Crimea. Moscow was one world, his dacha the other. And in the latter he insisted that the GRU maintain a low profile. No man could relax in an armed camp, and Keradin felt that his vineyard, far from the mainstream, was not a place that would be easily targeted by an enemy. He felt secure.
Cobb circled to the north, above the highest vineyards. Within yards of his final goal, he found the rock outcroppings that had been so prominent in the photos. It was not above the fence that surrounded the vineyards, but it slanted upward enough, almost like the lip of a ski jump, to make it the weakest point on the perimeter.
His one weapon was a razor-sharp knife in his boot. With this, he was able to cut a sturdy sapling from a nearby stand of trees. Carefully, he sliced off the branches one by one, close to the trunk. Then just as prudently, he smeared the whitened scars on the bark with dirt. After he was over the fence, there would be no way to dispose of it, and he wanted nothing that would attract the attention of the guards.
Back on top of the outcropping, he tested the strength of the sapling, making sure it would take his weight. To the southeast, he could make out the faint glow over the Black Sea that presaged the sun and a new day. Planting the staff in the hard ground below, he bounced lightly on his toes for a second, then vaulted gracefully into the air. It was not really a pole vault. He wanted just enough height to clear the fence, just enough distance to land far enough beyond the sensing devices that he knew were implanted two yards beyond the fence. As he reached the apex of his leap, he very deliberately cast the sapling backward into some rye grass growing a few yards from the fence. With luck, the grass and the dirt he had rubbed into the cuts in the bark would hide it from curious eyes.
As he landed precisely on his toes, he rolled forward before his heels could make full impact on the turf. Touching the ground first with his right shoulder, he rolled twice in an effort to absorb the impact and avoid setting off an oversensitive device near the fence.
He was in! Remaining on his knees, his eyes searched in every direction, using the faint horizon as a backdrop to ensure there were no guards nearby. He’d been right. The flashlights he’d counted from outside represented the only men who were there. As the CIA report had stated, they felt secure enough on this hillside that there was no effort to make the vineyard impenetrable, no anticipation that someone like Cobb would seek entry in this manner. Very unlike the GRU, he thought, remembering the difficulty he once had breaking their security in Moscow.
Now creeping into the safety of a row of vines, all he could do was wait for the sun to rise, for the workers to arrive so that he could mix among them and move about as if he were one of the peasant laborers. He knew the basic location of every building and every path, and the purposes of most of them. However, there were some buildings to the west, in the lower part of the fields, that mystified him. He had to quickly develop a feel for the movement of the day, the habits of the workers, the daily customs and routines of the dacha that its inhabitants followed without thinking. Acclimatization was one of Cobb’s first steps wherever he went, and it was often what saved his neck in the first hours in a new place.
At a very early hour, when the sun had yet to heat the still air, the huge main gate was opened to allow the workers inside. Cobb noted both the security devices that were apparently turned off at this time and the location of the button that engaged an electric motor that moved the heavy gates. The guards had disposed of their rifles beforehand, their only weapons now apparently pistols. It was likely another of Keradin’s efforts to avoid the tension of an armed camp.