Jacobsen was pacing and paused; after a minute he nodded and said thoughtfully, “Yes… yes I do. He took an incredible risk tonight. It could be very risky for us, but on the other hand Chernakov and his wife could lose much more, they could lose everything.”
“We must make our next move very carefully,” Harding said ponderously, “if true, it is a very sticky situation and it’s going to take some very careful planning, otherwise, it could trigger a major international incident.
We need more than a one time contact with the General.”
“That’s right, we do,” Jacobsen agreed, “and that won’t be easy. Karpov hardly let them out of his sight tonight, the slimy toad,” he said derisively. “My guess is that the KGB is never far away from Chernakov.”
“Bill, you’re scheduled to go back to the U.S. next week,” Harding spoke thoughtfully. “When you get there, call Langley and get with Fred Wellman. Also find out who Wellman would tap at State to help. We don’t want any one in the White House or the Pentagon getting wind of this. Leaks in the White House are too common. You don’t know who to trust over there anymore and there are people in the Pentagon that are just as bad. Some of them would sell their own grandmothers to tip an advantage in their direction. We dare not in any way jeopardize the Chernakovs.”
Jacobsen responded, “How about Neil Klein from State’s Office of Intelligence and Research? He has worked with Fred Wellman; and he’s certainly not a fan of the administration and I trust him.”
Harding agreed emphatically, “Yes, I think Klein could be one to head this up if he would. You try to set it up and work with Klein and Wellman. Let’s call it Operation Redwing. I want you back here by October 30th.”
Ten days following the ballet, Chernakov was sent to Havana, Cuba to evaluate the Soviet military presence there and observe the technical (intelligence) personnel.
Moscow wanted to make certain that Chairman Castro knew of Chernakov’s presence and the importance of his visit to the newly acquired Soviet island satellite under America’s nose. The propaganda value would not go unnoticed.
Valeri had not been well and Chernakov was concerned. He did not relish leaving her even for a short duration under such conditions, but she insisted that she would be fine until he returned.
Over the next few weeks she developed a persistent cough that would seemingly get better and then worsen again. She had lost weight and each day at the museum her duties seemed more difficult as she led tours through.
When Chernakov returned to Moscow on October 12th, he found Valeri in bed, with a severe cough and a high fever. Valeri was hospitalized under the care of Doctor Vassily Nakhimov a friend and schoolmate of Pyotr’s. It comforted Chernakov to know Vassily was treating Valeri. He was well regarded as a physician and he was someone Pyotr knew and trusted.
Dr. Nakhimov told Pyotr that Valeri was fighting a particularly difficult strain of viral pneumonia that antibiotics would not help.
He prayed as he sat by his wife’s bedside and reflected on his time in Havana. The climate there was mild and pleasant in contrast to the cold damp weather of Moscow. Perhaps Cuba would be a place better suited to Valeri’s recovery. Havana was not perfect, but if it meant his wife would get well… Perhaps he should speak to Karpov about a longer assignment to Cuba.
Over the next few days Chernakov thought of little else other than Valeri’s well being as he considered the harsh winter facing them.
His thoughts were interrupted by Vassily who motioned to him from the doorway of her room. He followed the doctor to a small alcove. Turning to Chernakov, Nakhimov said wearily, “Your wife’s condition is worsening, Pyotr; I have done every thing I can do. I am sorry, old friend; all we can do now is wait.”
Pyotr nodded numbly. “I know, I know,” he said slowly and to himself, “It’s in God’s hands.”
It was the night of the seventh day Valeri had been in hospital. As he sat by her bed holding her hand silently praying, he could feel her life ebbing away. She opened her eyes and trying to smile spoke weakly, “Pyotr, take the next step. I love you. Our Father,” she began, but her words were fading and Pyotr leaned forward to kiss her and whispered, “Which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…”
He had finished the Lord’s Prayer with “Amen” she sighed softly and was gone. Like a little bird her spirit had flown, he thought. His Valeri was now with God but his heart was broken at the loss, huge sobs wracked his body. Together they had prayed for a peaceful passing and it was so-but his beloved wife—what would he do without her?
October 25, 1967
At the American Embassy the activity level mirrored an anthill or so William Jacobsen thought as he made his appearance outside Joe Harding’s office on this morning. The Ambassador had finished dictating a memo and summoned Jacobsen in. “Good to have you back,” he said eagerly. “How was your trip?” Harding’s question waited for more than a traditional “Fine,” as he rose to close his office door.
Jacobsen smiled nodding an affirmation. Harding pressed the button on an intercom, “Hold all calls; now, Bill, tell me where we are.”
“We have a deal, Sir. As it turned out, Klein had just returned to Washington a day or two before I arrived. We met with Fred Wellman, who was cautiously excited at the possibility and both men were uniform in their estimation that this would be an incredible coup.
Klein agreed to handle the project; his and Wellman’s initial reaction was that it will be very risky and difficult to accomplish since we need to have access to both parties at the same time and place and Chernakov’s high visibility by itself is a major obstacle. We must make another contact. What’s been happening here?” Jacobsen asked.
“I’m told Chernakov left for Cuba a few days after the ballet. He got back a couple of weeks ago, but nobody has seen anything of him or his wife,” Harding said thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s time for a trip to the Lenin Museum to soak up a little of Karpov’s Soviet culture; what do you think, Jacobsen?”
The next afternoon a small group of the embassy staff accompanied William Jacobsen on a cultural visit to the Lenin Museum with a Russian speaking tour guide.
Upon making inquiries about Madame Chernakov, Jacobsen was stunned when told that Valeri Chernakov had become very ill and had died in hospital one week ago. The group continued the tour and returned to the embassy with a shocked William Jacobsen in tow.
Ambassador Harding knew immediately something was very wrong as a shaken Jacobsen entered his office. After absorbing the bad news, Harding walked to the window and looked out and then sadly exclaimed, “That lovely lady; what a shame! What a damned shame!” he repeated. “How could we have missed this? What about the General? Where is he? We must send condolences, but carefully. Since we don’t know officially, we’ll have to do it through the museum.”
While Harding was talking Jacobsen had been thinking; “Well Sir, this changes the scenario; now we only have to plan for one,” he said soberly.
January 15, 1968
Chernakov’s loneliness and grief was magnified; there was no one with whom he could share his feeling of loss or his faith. He had received a note of condolences from the American Ambassador Harding, hand carried and previously read by Karpov. It said little, but was rich in evidence of the underlying care of the American and the note had been hand written.
He knew that there had been no formal notification of Valeri’s death, but it meant much that the Ambassador had somehow learned of it and had taken the time to contact him. What was it Valeri had said? “Take the next step.” Chernakov’s heart was torn. Yes, he wanted to be in the company of people who were not afraid to move and speak without fear of reprisal. Now it seemed not as important without Valeri.