Code Name Antares

Chapter 3

Point Lookout State Park, at the tip of the peninsula, was where the Potomac River met the Chesapeake Bay. The park was popular during daylight hours from spring through fall. Fishermen, boaters, and families enjoyed the facilities, no longer remembering it was once one of the worst, harshest prisons ever established during the Civil War.

Kalinin arrived early, driving his dark blue, 1973 Z28 Camaro along the last mile of Point Lookout Road. He chose this out of the way destination for the upcoming meeting.

He shut off the headlights, then dropped the speed down to twenty mph. The car rolled past a small building on the left. He tried to spot any sign of movement around the darkened entrance to the visitors’ restrooms, but there was nothing to see.

Barely pressing the gas, he continued along the road leading into a cul-de-sac that looped back around. A three-story house, with the tower of a lighthouse protruding through a red-shingled roof was just beyond a tall chain link fence. The lighthouse was no longer in operation, its lantern dark for years. A single pole light, near a locked gate, was just bright enough to light up the entrance walkway.

He came around the loop, spotted a parking area on the left side, backed up, then shut off the engine. Reaching under his seat, he felt for the cold steel of his Makarov, then laid it on the dash.

Leaning back, he reviewed every minute detail, pulling names, incidents and dates from his mind. He knew there’d be questions, each one testing him.

Letting out a long breath, he glanced up the road. Still no sign of a vehicle approaching. He leaned across the center console and popped open the glove box, took out an envelope, then turned on the overhead light. Inside the envelope were the car’s registration and ownership papers. A brief smile crossed his face, as he put them back in the envelope then closed the glove box. His license was tucked inside his wallet. Earlier that day he’d put both passports in an envelope then taped it under the glove box, not wanting to take a chance if he was stopped by local cops.

There wasn’t any doubt that he and the vehicle would be searched. He’d be surprised if it didn’t happen. Taking his Makarov from the dash, he thought it best to make himself seem less threatening, so he put the weapon under the seat.

Satisfied everything was in order, he glanced at his watch. Exactly 0100 hours. He got out, closed the door, then walked to the front of the car, just as he saw headlights.

Taking a couple paces away from the Camaro, he faced the oncoming vehicle, its headlights settling on him. Keeping his arms by his side, with his gloved hands in full view, he took a deep breath.

He was about to have his first, and long-awaited meeting with his “handler.”

Darkened windows prevented him from seeing how many people were inside the Mercedes, even as the vehicle stopped in front of him, then backed into a space two away from the Camaro.

Just before the driver backed up, Kalinin got a quick look at the license plate: Nation’s Capital, DPL 48. A small sticker indicated the date and year the vehicle was registered as a diplomatic vehicle. Verification complete.

Headlights remained on, as the two front doors opened, and an overhead light came on. He shielded his eyes, finally able to see inside. Three men: driver, one passenger up front, one in the rear. Driver and front passenger got out and closed the doors.

Kalinin stood his ground and waited. The driver, Misha Zelesky, approached the front of the Mercedes. He was close to six feet tall, barrel chested, thinning dark hair. His black coat was intentionally left unbuttoned, exposing a weapon in a shoulder holster. Taking up a position by the front bumper, he folded his thick hands in front of him, keeping his eyes on Kalinin, without so much as a nod.

Kalinin returned Zelesky’s stare, until the second man came around the vehicle. From a description Kalinin had, the man had to be Petya Vikulin. He was not quite 5’10” with black hair, and broad shoulders.

Zelesky walked in front of Kalinin, motioning for him to raise his arms, then he expertly patted him down, only finding his wallet. He asked in Russian, “Weapon? Identification?”

Kalinin tilted his head toward the Camaro, responding in Russian. “Weapon is under the seat. Identification papers are in the glovebox.”

“What about a passport?” Zelesky asked. He’d been ordered to be thorough, to search for any type of ID.

“Taped under the glove box.”

Zelesky searched inside the car, pulling the Makarov from under the seat, then he removed both envelopes. He handed everything to the man sitting in the rear.

A few moments passed. Finally, the man in the car got out. Ambassador Anton Vazov gave the envelopes to Zelesky, directing him to return them to the car. Then carrying the Makarov with him, he walked slowly toward Kalinin, and handed him his weapon.

Kalinin put the Makarov in his waistband. At 6’2” he seemed to tower over the shorter Vazov who was motioning with an index finger for him to lean closer. Kalinin complied, allowing Vazov to study his features more closely in the headlights. It wasn’t so much the brown hair the ambassador seemed interested in, but more a half-inch scar on the chin and hazel-colored eyes.

Vazov finally extended a hand. “Nicolai, at last we meet.”

Kalinin returned the handshake. “Yes, sir, at last.”

“I must say, Nicolai, your American name, ‘James Broyce’ suits you very well. Shall I call you ‘James?’”

“I like the sound of ‘Nicolai’ for now, Mr. Ambassador. I have not heard it spoken for a long time.”

Vazov smiled briefly then questioned, “And would you prefer speaking in our ‘Mother’ tongue, or have you forgotten much of the language after spending so many years in America? How old were you when you came here? Three? Four? That would be about thirty-two years you have been away from Russia.”

Responding to a test question, Kalinin answered in Russian, “I was three, sir. And it has nearly been thirty-six years, but I can assure you, Mr. Ambassador, I have not forgotten our language, nor have I forgotten what my parents told me about Russia. I will speak in whatever language that you feel most comfortable with.”

Vazov laughed a short, deep laugh. “Then we will speak in Russian.” He pointed to the scar. “How did that happen?”

“During a ballgame when I slid into third base. Do you follow baseball?”

“No, I am not interested. Now, come. Walk with me.” He turned to the two security men. “Wait here. Keep watch.”

Zelesky and Vikulin backed away, both of them drawing their weapons. Zelesky shut off the headlights, leaving on the parking lights. He stayed near the two vehicles. The Mercedes’ keys were on the dash, just in case they had to move fast.

Vikulin went across the road, then walked slowly toward the restroom building. He positioned himself at the corner on the south side giving him an unobstructed view of the road.

Ambassador Vazov motioned toward the rocks, as he rubbed his arthritic right hip. “I must sit for a moment, Nicolai.”

“Of course, sir.” Kalinin brushed sand from the rock wall, nearly one foot in height, then he motioned for Vazov to sit. “You have not been in America very long, Mr. Ambassador. I am sure former Ambassador Balicov’s death came as a shock.”

“Yes, it was a shock for everyone. It has taken me a long time to review papers, surveillance tapes and videos, dossiers.” He folded his hands on his lap. “While I did not know your parents, Nicolai, I read their dossier. It said they died instantly in the auto accident. You were away at the time?”

Kalinin lowered his head. “Yes, sir. The ship I was stationed on in Norfolk was going through sea trials.”

“From what I’ve read, and now meeting you, they did a remarkable job in raising you. They were dedicated to you and Russia.”

“I know, sir.” Kalinin took a deep breath, briefly picturing his mother and father.

“How old were you when you found out you were Russian?”

“Fourteen. My parents explained everything to me.”

“Were you shocked?”

Kalinin shook his head. “No, not shocked. They said things over the years that made me wonder. I began to question them as I got older.”

“And you were ready to serve Mother Russia, just as they had?”

“More than ready then, and now.”

Vazov lightly slapped the top of his thighs as he said, “I would like to talk more about your years in America, Nicolai, but now is not the time.”

Kalinin put a foot on top of the rocks, resting his arms on his knee. “One day soon perhaps we will have the opportunity.”

“If and when that day finally comes, both of us may be back in Russia.”

“Yes. That is possible. But actually, I look forward to returning to Kursk, sir, to see where I was born.”

“Much has changed in Russia, Nicolai.”

Kalinin slid his foot off the rock, hearing a quiet sound of water slapping against the sandy shore. He stared ahead into the darkness momentarily before looking down at Vazov. “Much has changed here as well, sir.”

Silence between the two men lasted a couple of moments until Vazov said, “All your years living here have led you to this moment. Are you prepared to do everything we might ask of you, even if that means ‘eliminating’ someone?”

Kalinin didn’t hesitate in responding. He locked onto Vazov’s dark eyes. “Mr. Ambassador, anything you ask of me, no matter what that might entail, I will complete without question.”

Vazov pointed over his shoulder then lowered his voice. “And if I ask you to use your weapon — here, now?”

Kalinin glanced quickly at the two security men, then drew his weapon. Keeping it out of view, holding it low in front of him, he questioned, “One or both, sir?”

“You are confident enough to take out both?”

“I am, sir, except I probably do not need to remind you that you are going to need a ride back to the embassy.”

Vazov finally cracked a smile. “Never mind. I trust your ability.”

Kalinin slid the weapon back into his waistband. “Sir, I will do anything you ask of me, but I have a request, and suggestions.”

Vazov tilted his head. “Go ahead.”

“Mr. Ambassador, you know I only rent the house I am currently living in. I do not want any devices installed.”

“I assume you mean a scrambler or shortwave?”

“Yes, sir. I cannot take the chance that my landlord will inspect the property. And if I must leave in an emergency, it might take too long to disassemble and remove the equipment.”

“But what if you need to use the safe house? You realize both those devices are installed.”

“If circumstances dictate that I go there, then those would undoubtedly become a necessity. But I hope that will not happen.”

Vazov was beginning to feel less and less like Kalinin’s handler. On the other hand, he was impressed by the younger man’s forward-thinking and ability to take charge. From this first meeting, Vazov realized Russia’s newest “sleeper” would serve her well.

Vazov struggled slightly trying to stand. Kalinin held his arm, assisting him. “Let us go to my car, Nicolai. This evening is not treating me well.”

The two men settled into the leather back seat of the Mercedes. Vazov reached overhead and turned on a reading light, then removed a large envelope from the front seat pocket, and a folded piece of paper from his jacket. “The paper lists our established ‘dead drop’ sites.”

Kalinin glanced at the list. “I will familiarize myself with these.” He refolded the paper, slipping it into his leather jacket.

Vazov handed him the envelope. “This will be your first assignment.”

Kalinin nodded. He removed the papers from the envelope. Three sets, each set stapled. “Were these left at the same location?”

“No. Each set of papers was retrieved from different ‘drop’ sites.”

Kalinin examined photos and every page. As far as specifications, very little was listed.

All the while Vazov kept his eyes on him, watching to see if there was any form of emotion. But there was none. The younger man was completely in control.

“Well, Nicolai, do you have an idea on what that weapon could be? Why have the Americans labeled it ‘Top Secret’?”

Kalinin dropped the envelope on the seat. He turned slightly, looking at Vazov. “There is not much to go on, but I would say it has to do with some type of laser technology. But since it is classified as top secret, there is obviously something very special about it. Do you know exactly how many weapons are being ‘offered’?”

“Not yet.”

“And has a meeting been set up with the individual, ‘Primex’?”

“Moscow has just approved our request to proceed. Misha will meet him at whatever location and time he has chosen. I can only assume that is when details will be given about the ‘transfer’ of the weapon. At least that is what I am anticipating. He indicated there may be another meeting afterward. Why he is insisting on separate meetings, I do not know.

“As soon as I return to the embassy, I will have Misha go to the location and make the mark. Then we must wait until we are contacted.”

“Am I correct in assuming that once the meeting takes place, I will be in control of the mission?”

Vazov smiled slightly. “You will still report to me while you are here in the U.S., but yes, the plan for the mission is entirely in your hands.”

“And what about funds, sir? Equipment will be needed, payoffs will … ”

“I will give you enough cash that should see you through this assignment. Remember, when it is time for you to move the weapon or weapons, you will have access to Russia’s jet at Dulles International Airport.”

“From what I understand, sir, in order to give the ‘merchandise’ diplomatic immunity, official papers must be filled out.”

“That is correct. I will give you a seal and a special stamp. You must remember that each package must be clearly marked ‘diplomatic pouch.’”

“I understand,” Kalinin nodded. “And once I have secured the weapons, will you contact our comrades in Moscow?”

“The decision was already made that you will deliver them to Moscow. Then, once in Moscow, arrangements will be made for transferring half to the Afghans, however many that may be. My contact in Kabul is Major Zubarev. He is dealing with the Afghans.” Vazov detected something in the face of the younger Russian. “What is it?”

“You mentioned our aircraft at Dulles, and I realize at this point we do not know how many weapons will be made available, nor do we have an exact date when this will happen, but… ”

“What is your concern?”

“My concern only pertains to multiple weapons, perhaps ten or more, and if that is the case, I believe we should not put all the weapons aboard the aircraft. If anything happened… ”

“I understand. And your suggestion is?”

Kalinin hesitated, letting the idea roll around his brain, confident that it was plausible. “We have cargo ships traveling up and down the American coast, do we not?” Vazov nodded. “Do we have any carriers operating in or close to the Mediterranean?”

“Two. Why?”

“As soon as we learn of a date for the ‘transfer’ of the weapons, would you be able to put the captain of a cargo vessel on alert?”

“You want to deliver the weapons to that ship? But how?”

“I will find a way. Then, once the cargo ship is within range of the carrier’s helicopters, the weapons can be picked up and delivered to Kabul. I will personally make the delivery to Moscow.”

Vazov could only wonder how Kalinin was able to put this plan together in only a matter of minutes. “I will see what I can do.” He reached inside his jacket. “You may need this. Do you know what it is?”

Kalinin took the envelope then removed a small book, barely two by three inches. He flipped through the tiny code book. “Yes, sir. I remember my parents using one. It is a ‘one-time pad.’” A one-time pad is a type of encryption almost impossible to crack. Characters from plain text are encrypted by the use of a character from a secret random key (pad) of the same length as the plain text. This results in a cipher text. Each code page is used one time. The code is printed on sheets of chemically treated paper called “flash paper.” Once heated it converts to nitrocellulose, then burns almost instantly, leaving no ash. The two men had exactly the same book.

He put the book in his pocket. “Once I have the weapons that are going to Moscow, I will write a coded message on page eight of the Washington Post, and leave it under the embassy gate. You can have the seal and documents left at one of our drop sites.”

“Why not leave the message at a drop site, Nicolai?”

“I believe this would be the fastest way, without your men having to make several trips looking for a message.”

“It appears you have thought of everything, Nicolai.”

“I hope so, Mr. Ambassador.”

Vazov indicated with a thumb over his shoulder. “I have large canvas pouches in the trunk. I am hoping you will be able to use them for the weapons.”

“If they are not large enough, I am sure I can ‘break’ down the weapons.”

“Oh, I kept your Russian passport.” He patted his inside pocket. “I will see that it shows you are a diplomatic courier and ensure it has proper date stamps, coinciding with countries you have ‘visited.’ One of the men will leave it our drop site.

“Remember, Nicolai, unless there is an absolute emergency, do not phone the embassy.”

Kalinin got out, then leaned in. “Of course, sir. I will only use the means discussed.”

“Good night, Nicolai.”

“Good night, Mr. Ambassador.” He closed the door, went to the Camaro, and slid behind the wheel. He started the engine, but waited until the Mercedes was out of sight before he turned on headlights.

As he drove through the park, he remembered his parents. He hadn’t thought much about them over the last several years. But talking about them briefly with the ambassador made him remember the years he had with them. Maybe for the first time in his life, he was grateful they had been his parents.

Nicolai Kalinin was born one month prior to his parents leaving Kursk, Russia. Traveling under false American documents with the last name “Broyce,” they were smuggled into Geneva, Switzerland. For the next three years the Kalinins worked at the International School of Geneva. The jobs were menial, but they established themselves as reliable, compassionate people. When he was three, they moved to the U.S., settling in a small town outside Charlottesville, Virginia. They were welcomed into an up-and-coming community, being treated like any other young American family. The mother and father held decent jobs, the family attended church on Sundays, and they supported their young son in his endeavors. They were devoted parents, preparing their son for his future in America.

Attending public schools with the name “James Broyce,” he excelled in math and science, participated in sports, and developed a love of baseball. After graduating high school, he joined the Navy, and served five years as an Interior Communications electrician. ICs directed and coordinated the installation, maintenance and repair of interior communications systems on ships and at shore facilities, including communication systems, indicating and navigation systems, visual landing aids for aircraft, and alarm, safety, and warning systems. After his final tour of duty, he moved back to Charlottesville. Taking advantage of the GI bill, he attended the University of Virginia, earning a B.S. in Electrical Engineering.

With the deep level of his cover, and a 4.0 grade point average, he was confident he’d be hired by a defense contractor. He applied for a college internship program with ZXR Corporation, and began the program one week after graduation. Over time he was promoted to different grade levels, and was always willing to take assignments aboard Navy ships, training, repairing, upgrading systems.

He worked day after day, year after year, never knowing when he’d be called upon to serve Russia, or what he’d be asked to do. His day and time had finally come.