Code Name Antares

Chapter 2

A spotless, black four-door Mercedes pulled into the U-shaped driveway at 1125 Sixteenth Street, NW. Parked behind a seven-foot high wrought iron fence lined with low bushes, its view of the street was unimpeded.

The driver got out and hurried around to the passenger side, opening the rear door. A stocky-framed man in his early sixties, stepped out, folding his dark gray coat over his arm. These colder days were much more reminiscent of his homeland. Russian Ambassador Anton Vazov glanced at gray clouds rolling across the sky. The local weather forecasted possible snow flurries.

As he walked toward the building, he reflected on the lunch he just finished at the Monocle. Only a half mile from the Capitol, the restaurant was a popular spot for all politicians. While Vazov didn’t have much hope in picking up the slightest tidbit of information, there was always a possibility. But it was the food that made him a regular patron. The flavors from today’s lunch still lingered on his tongue: a green salad topped with a mound of fresh crabmeat and a small sirloin steak, cooked rare, and for dessert, a slice of New York-style cheesecake.

Taking a quick look over his shoulder, he walked to the main entrance of his residence, a residence that also served as the Embassy of the Soviet Union. The building was four stories, with the first two used as office space, the third was his residence, and the fourth, so-called attic space.

After the building became the USSR’s Embassy, rumors spread within the higher echelons of the U.S. government, that concealed in diplomatic pouches were materials to build an atomic bomb. Every piece was rumored to be stored and assembled in the attic.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador.” Dasha Yudin smiled as she stood behind her desk, smoothing down her beige skirt. Yudin was new to the embassy staff, having arrived from Russia three weeks earlier. Her requirement for the position was to be fluent in English. A plain looking twenty-six year old, she always wore her long brown hair tied into a tight “bun” (coil) at the back of her head.

Vazov nodded quickly at the young woman, as he saw his aide approaching.

“Mr. Ambassador,” Oleg Duboff said. “Let me take your coat, sir.” Duboff folded the coat over his arm. A small, thin man, barely 5’7”, Duboff had been at the embassy two years, serving as aide to the previous ambassador.

“Come with me to my office, Oleg,” Vazov said, smoothing his hair back.

Miss Dasha Yudin sat down again, folding her hands on top of her desk, waiting for a phone call… any phone call.

Stopping at an elevator, Duboff pressed the button. The doors immediately parted, and the two men stepped in, with Vazov entering ahead of his aide.

At the end of the second floor, facing Sixteenth Street, was the ambassador’s office. Duboff scurried in front of Vazov in order to open the door.

The ambassador immediately went to his desk, looking for any new folders or envelopes. Even though he had his office “swept” everyday for listening devices, Vazov remained cautious.

“Anything new today, Oleg?” he asked as he pointed to a folder.

Duboff hung the coat on a brass coat tree then came closer to the desk. “No, sir. Nothing yet today.”

Disappointed, Vazov jabbed his index finger against the folder. Inside was a white envelope. There wasn’t any return address, but the postmark showed Baltimore, Maryland, and was addressed to him specifically. The letter inside had been typed and was brief, indicating the individual had top secret information. Below that were three numbered items, each indicating a different location for “dead drops.” If he, Vazov, was interested, an envelope would be at drop number one in two days. If the envelope was not picked up at the end of that day, it would be assumed Russia had no interest.

Vazov turned and went to one of the front windows. A steady stream of traffic flowed in both directions along Northwest Sixteenth Street. Four blocks south was Pennsylvania Avenue and the White House.

A sharp rapping at the door made him swing around. “Mr. Ambassador!” a man shouted. Duboff immediately hurried to the door, but it opened before he reached it.

Two men entered. They needed no introduction. Misha Zelesky and Petya Vikulin, both assigned to the embassy as security, both KGB.

Zelesky put a finger to his lips, then pointed to a cabinet.

“You can go, Oleg,” Vazov said as he waved his aide away. As soon as he left, Vazov came around the desk and walked to a six-foot high, antique wooden cabinet. Behind two doors were six shelves on the left, two on the right, with a reel-to-reel tape recorder on the right lower shelf. He turned the recorder on then adjusted the sound. Music from the opera “Aleko” by Rachmaninov began playing.

Vazov slid his hands into his trouser pockets, as he turned to face the two men. Even with the music playing, he spoke softly. “What do you have to report?” His eyes went from one man then to the other.

Vikulin removed an envelope from his jacket pocket, handing it to Vazov. “It was taped under the bench in the park.”

As Vazov opened the envelope, he asked Zelesky, “You still haven’t seen the individual?”

“No. Unless we set up surveillance twenty-four hours a day, it is not likely we will. It is even possible he has someone else make the ‘drop.’”

Vazov put the envelope on a shelf and pulled out one black and white photo and two pieces of paper. The photo and first page were stamped top and bottom in red ink: “Top Secret.”

Laying the papers down, he held the photo closer, trying to determine what he was looking at. It appeared to be part of a device attached to possibly a rifle barrel. He switched the photo to his left hand then picked up the first page. It was an official-looking copy of specifications of a weapon, but again, it wasn’t complete, only portions were detailed, the remainder blacked out.

Vazov scanned the page. The Department of Defense logo was on the top left. Down the left side were places listing the title of the document and its classification. Closer to the bottom were spaces for signing off on the program. In the lower right was the program date. All signatures and dates had been blacked out.

Laying down that page, he picked up another, but this was a plain piece of white paper. The message had been prepared the same as the first two, hand printed in black ink:

At the bottom right was a name printed in red ink. It had been printed very clearly, at a slight upward angle: “Primex.”

Vazov slid the papers and photo into the envelope. He tapped the envelope against a shelf as he wondered why this “Primex” had not yet asked for any money in exchange for this information. Perhaps Moscow must first make an offer. Or, there was the possibility political asylum would be all that was required.

Vazov had already dismissed the notion that this was a setup orchestrated by the CIA or FBI.

“I will contact Moscow,” he said looking at the two men. “Once I have an answer, I will know how to proceed.”

As the two men left the office, Vazov secured the cabinet doors. Whenever a meeting of importance took place in this office, the music would play.