“I see, well Mr. Smith, what is your ‘civilian’ occupation?” Pyotr remained calm, friendly.
“I work in construction.”
“What kind of construction?”
“I do road construction work.”
“You were a long way from your home to do road construction… all the way to Laos?”
“That’s what I do,” he said defiantly.
“Where is your home, Mr. Smith?”
“The United States of America.”
“Do you have a family there… one that you would like to see again someday?”
“Go to Hell!!”
“Look at me, Mr. Smith, what do you see?” Chernakov spoke softly, but there was an edge to his question.
The prisoner raised his eyes and looked squarely at Chernakov, but didn’t answer.
Chernakov pressed, “I will tell you what you do not see, Mr. Smith, you do not see a fool. You will answer my questions, one way or the other.”
Lu Chan watched with deep interest. He had admired the Soviet General from the first time he had met him in Hanoi. He wondered if the American would underestimate the skill of his interrogator.
“Now shall we try again? Let me help you. We already know that you were captured at a secret CIA radar complex in Laos. Because of the nature of that complex, the people who were there were highly trained technically; therefore, since you were one of those people, we believe that you are knowledgeable about the Tactical Air Navigation system and the TSQ.”
“I work in road construction,” the prisoner asserted dogmatically. He seemed to be bracing himself as if he was expecting a blow or some physical attack.
Chernakov sighed, “Very well, Mr. Smith, I know that you would probably withstand a beating, but I think that would be a waste of time. I saw one of your American Chaplains today when I toured the cells. Do you know the one I mean?”
Smith nodded his head, slightly bewildered by the question.
Chernakov continued, “He was in quite bad condition and probably is in need of medical attention. I doubt that he could withstand another beating. What do you think, Mr. Smith?”
Pyotr saw the look of understanding, then the rage and defeat in the man’s eyes as he shook his head, no.
“Now Mr. Smith, there will be no more games, Major Lu Chan, have the guards bring the Chaplain in.”
Lu Chan was surprised, but started for the door when Smith spoke, “No wait… what do you want?” he asked; his voice was hoarse as he looked at Chernakov.
Chernakov held up his hand gesturing Lu Chan to stop and return to his seat. “I want you to tell us what is your name and tell us everything you know about the TSQ radar technology operating at CIA Site 85.”
“Bill… Perry and I can only tell you about my job which was to take care of the power generators. I don’t know anything about the technical part of the operations.”
“Really? Why should we believe that, Mr. Bill Perry?” Chernakov asked impatiently.
“Because it was top secret and none of us knew more than the specific area of operations where we were trained and assigned. Most of the people who understood the TSQ were killed or got away.”
“Then how did you survive, Mr. Perry, why were you left behind?”
“I was supposed to blow up the generators.”
“Were there other areas you were to destroy? Did you succeed?”
“No… I don’t know; during the attack there was a lot of shooting and explosions and confusion and then I was captured.”
“What about the other two who were captured with you… what were their jobs?”
“I don’t know, I think they were replacements at the site, but I don’t know. I’ve told you everything I know.”
Chernakov stood up and looked steadily at the American and said quietly, “I don’t believe you, Mr. Perry, but you will have time to reconsider—you will be leaving here shortly on a long trip. You will get to see some of my country.” He looked at Lu Chan, “Have the guards take this man back to his cell.”
He stared at Chernakov, “Wha… what do you mean? Where are you sending me? Where are you sending me?” Perry repeated, yelling, “You bastard, you bastard,” he railed at Chernakov.
Lu Chan looked at the implacable countenance of Chernakov, “Shall I have another prisoner brought in?”
“No, Major, it would be a waste of time. Make the arrangements for Mr. Smith or Perry, if that is his name, and the two who were with him to be transported to the Soviet Union. They will have time to remember their names and their technical skills while they are waiting for the equipment from the radar site to arrive. At least it will be better for them if they do.”
Chernakov stood quietly shaking his head at the irony.
Lu Chan read his thoughts, “You had no choice, General.”
“Really? I don’t know; perhaps God will forgive me. We now know that our North Vietnamese Comrades plan to use the American POWs as part of any peace negotiation. American President Nixon has promised the American people a conclusion to the war in Vietnam. He will do whatever he has to do to settle it.”
Chernakov was bone weary as he and Lu Chan left the prison and walked toward the vehicle that would take him to the waiting Soviet aircraft.
Turning to Lu Chan, he said, “There will be a Soviet aviation expert who will meet me in Hanoi to evaluate some captured American aircraft sections as well as the material from Site 85. I expect that it will take some time to secure all of the equipment and arrange for its transport by ship back to USSR; I may be required to remain in Hanoi for several months until this is accomplished.”
“As you know, General, I am frequently in Hanoi. You may contact me at our headquarters there; I may have updated weather information for you. I wish you the best for the rest of your assignment.”
“Thank you for all of your help, Major,” Chernakov said returning Lu Chan’s salute, “I will see you in Hanoi.”
Chapter 1
Seattle, Washington
Wednesday, September 10, 1980
The plush carpeted hallways of Ramsey, Wilson & Carr were hushed and for the most part, empty. Only the occasional swish of the opening and closing of the polished sunburst elevator doors allowing access to the mahogany paneled reception area gave evidence of coming and goings in the busy law firm.
A meeting had been called to order by the firm’s senior partner, Lyle Ramsey, Jr. Twenty five of the partners were gathered at the marble topped walnut table in the main conference room. An agenda addressing a number of the firm’s corporate mergers, tax filings, and limited liability companies rested in front of Lyle Ramsey at the head of the table. William Stafford the firm’s Chief Financial Officer and managing partner Frank Wilson, sat opposite each other on either side of Ramsey.
Harrison Carr sat quietly at the far end of the table, note pad in front of him; his eagle eyes studying the faces and body language of each of the younger partners.
Seventy-six year old Carr the most elderly of the partners had been with the firm from the beginning. He had been Ramsey, Sr.’s partner and continued, becoming the younger Ramsey’s mentor. While the craggy faced old man had easily relinquished the firm’s control to Lyle Jr., his power and management instincts held sway over the firm through long time connections in the international business and political world. As it had with Lyle Sr., the chemistry between Ramsey Jr. and Carr flourished.
Coffee had been served all around as Lyle moved into the agenda. He was in the middle of a sentence when the door opened and his executive secretary, Connie Porter, discreetly motioned to him from the doorway. Lyle responded immediately knowing only an urgent matter would cause Connie to interrupt a partners’ meeting. “Excuse me, Mr. Ramsey; there is a call for you on your private line.”