The Shadow on the Grassy Knoll

THE SHADOW ON THE GRASSY KNOLL

Al Stevens

This book is a work of fiction based on an historical event. Except for public figures, the people in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2013 by Al Stevens.

All rights reserved.

This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law), without written permission from the author.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9886623-2-2

Mockingbird Songs & Stories, Cocoa, FL

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the 102 members, named and unnamed, who have, by making the supreme sacrifice in service to their country, earned a star on the Memorial Wall in the lobby of the Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters Building.

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to those who helped as I wrote this book: Mary Cain, Bill DeMar, Rosemary Fischer, Don Harach, Betsy Hardinger, Carol Jose, Abe March, Judy Stevens, and Julian Stevens. Others who helped shall remain nameless for various reasons.

Prologue

A breeze whispers through the trees and structures that surround the assassin’s position in the plaza. The rain has stopped, and the temperature is unseasonably warm for late November, but the trees shade him from the sun, and his jacket lies folded beside him. He kneels and holds his weapon down and out of sight. He checks his watch. Twenty minutes past noon. People gather on both sides of the street waiting for the motorcade. Cameras appear everywhere. He stays in the shadows, blends in, and hopes no one notices him, takes his picture, or gets in his line of fire.

Minutes pass. His movements are programmed and proficient, his escape well-planned. It seems like forever, but soon the target will be within range. Then, the mission completed, he will exit and escape, while the world stands still, shocked into disbelief, wondering why this tragedy happened and what its consequences will be.

The crowd cheers as the motorcade draws close. The open limousine with its motorcycle escort turns right, then left, and moves toward him. Spectators strain to get a glimpse of their charismatic leader and his lady, who smile and wave at them.

The assassin raises his weapon and rests it in position to fire. With only seconds to go, the limousine passes into his sights, and he looks through the scope and aligns the target in his crosshairs. He releases the safety with his thumb. His forefinger curls gently around the trigger, and he begins to squeeze...

Chapter 1

Nothing in his background suggested he was spy material, that he was what they called a natural, someone with potential. His origins were without distinction, yet Harold Sands was destined to become the youngest spy ever recruited by the Central Intelligence Agency.

It was late spring in 1950 at an orphanage in central-eastern Virginia, the kids were at the playground for recess, and a fight had broken out on the baseball field.

The fight was one-sided. Nine-year-old Harold Sands was getting the crap beat out of him, and he was not defending himself. Billy, the boy delivering Harold’s punishment, was bigger and stronger than most of the other boys. A circle of children surrounded them, shouting encouragement and cheering Billy on, not taking sides, but enjoying the fight and shielding it from the view of the staff.

Today, Billy had Harold on his back in the infield grass on the baseball diamond. Billy bent over him, pummeling him with both fists. Harold’s nose was bleeding, and the pain of the beating on his chest and abdomen was worse than usual. He tried to shield himself with his arms, but whenever he did, Billy found another place to hit.

Before today, Harold would not fight back. To do so would have made it worse. This time, however, a kick to his side had produced excruciating pain, worse than before, and he had to stop the beating before Billy seriously hurt him. Through the blood and tears he found a fist-sized rock in the grass within reach. He swung the rock with all his strength toward Billy’s chin. It connected like a lucky punch, and the bigger boy fell across him in a heap, blood pouring from his mouth. The circle of children became hushed, and they fell back in awe. Nobody had ever seen Harold do anything like that, and he was as surprised as they were.

He pushed his attacker off and stood, shaking with a rage he’d never felt before. A baseball bat lay nearby next to home plate. He picked it up, raised it over his head, and was about to brain his opponent when one of the teachers came up behind him, grabbed the bat as he began his downward swing, and jerked it out of his grasp.

Both boys went to the hospital. Two of Harold’s ribs were cracked, and Billy had lost a tooth and had a broken jaw. Although they occupied adjacent beds, they didn’t speak to one another that day or ever again.

An account of the fight went into Harold’s file, and Miss Moore, the orphanage administrator, counseled him on how to avoid fights and control his temper.

Do you know why the other boys pick on you, Harold? she asked from across her huge oak desk.

I think, so, ma’am. I’m smarter than them, and they don’t like me.

Miss Moore softened at this young boy’s insight. Of course he knew why he was unpopular. He was too smart not to know. Harold, you are indeed brighter than the others. A lot. But that doesn’t mean you have to flaunt it. That’s what the others don’t like.

Yes, ma’am.

What started it this time?

He was at bat. I struck him out.

And he didn’t like that?

No, ma’am.

And he said something, and you said something, and one thing led to another…

Yes, ma’am.

The incident on the ball field was to be the last beating Harold would take at the hands of his schoolmates. He was a loner, usually distant but cheerful and friendly around his young colleagues, but when threatened with bodily harm, he’d remember the beatings and how he’d prevailed over a bigger boy, the rage would ignite, and a serious fight would break out, a fight he usually won.

The rage troubled him, and he pledged to himself every time that it wouldn’t happen again. But when it did, he couldn’t control it, and he wouldn’t stop fighting until his opponent was down and defeated or until someone broke it up. He worked hard to hold his darker side in check, and most of the time he did, usually by retreating into his books and avoiding social contacts and conflicts. But when challenged and pushed, he’d lose control and respond.

The suppressed rage that smoldered inside would become a refined asset in later years and would eventually save his life.

Chapter 2

It was late summer of 1950 in Frankfurt. Mac propped his elbows on the concrete picnic table, put his chin in his hands, and wished he could be somewhere else. In his early fifties, Mac’s thin face was lined and dark, revealing a lifetime spent mostly outdoors. His gray hair was uncombed and in need of a cut. He took off his thick glasses and cleaned them with his shirttail.

Snuffy sat across from him, Millie on one side of Snuffy, and Leonard next to Mac. Paulo had called them together and was coming across the lawn to where they waited.

Paulo was in his fifties with a dark mustache and complexion, a wide nose, and full lips. He was management, a handler in the Frankfurt Station, managing field agents and staffing operations. His specialty was difficult missions.

He sat at the end of the table, nodded a greeting to the others, and shuffled his files around. We’re out here because you never know who’s listening, Paulo said, gesturing behind him toward the I.G. Farben building. A seven-story structure with six wings, it had been used for chemical research during the war but was now headquarters for the 5th US-Corps and CIA’s Frankfurt Station. This mission is vital, and you folks are the team we’ve assembled.

Mac looked around at the newly-formed team. He knew, trusted, and respected them all, but even so he would have preferred to work alone. Or maybe just with Snuffy.

Paulo continued. The bosses have put a sanction on a GRU handler named Andrei Vasilevich. How you deliver it is up to you. GRU was the Foreign Military Intelligence Directorate headquartered in the Russian Embassy in East Berlin.

The team looked from one to the other. Who’s in charge? Mac asked.

You are, Paulo said. Len, your Russian’s fluent, right? We’ll need it to get next to the target.

Da. I’m a cunning linguist. He leered at Millie, who looked away. Leonard was a handsome fellow in his late thirties, dressed to the nines, soft-spoken, and articulate. Everybody liked Leonard for his charm and free-wheeling style. They also respected his skills in the field.

Millie was young, a slender girl with a dark complexion and a nature to match. Not your typical assassin, this wisp of a woman didn’t talk much and rarely smiled.

You know, Snuffy said, rubbing his mustache, no disrespect to the others, but Mac and I can handle this sanction on our own. Hell, Mac can do it alone. Aren’t we crowding the field a bit?

Mac looked with affection at his old friend. Snuffy had come up the hard way, a Marine sniper in the war in the Pacific and now a mercenary, known for his prowess with the equipment and trappings of espionage. He was in his thirties, robust, and with a lot of miles left on him. He was the guy Mac wanted if he needed someone watching his back.

I know you could handle it, Paulo said. Anyone at this table could handle it. It’s the chief’s idea. One of you gets killed or compromised, the others take up the slack. We hand-picked this team with that in mind.

Mac snorted. Allison doesn’t know shit about the field. He hasn’t set foot out of that office since he got the job.

Paulo grinned at Mac’s assessment of their station chief. Then he continued. Mac, you’ll formulate a plan, make assignments, and oversee the operation.

We get support from the top? Mac asked.

Up front money. After that, the Company doesn’t want to hear from you until the target’s on a slab. You’re all in deep cover. And by the way, the brass prefers this sanction to look like an accident or natural causes.

Mac didn't always understand the motives of management. Why do they give a shit how he goes?

Paulo laughed and gazed away from the others into the park. Allison worries that if the Ruskies know we sanctioned Vasilevich, they’ll retaliate with a sanction on him.

Mac frowned and shook his head. It figures.

Leonard raised his hand like a schoolboy and grinned. Why Vasilevich?

Because he’s a pain in the ass, Paulo said. Every time we plan an op, recruit an asset, whatever, he finds out about it and tosses a monkey wrench in.

How does he get his information? Snuffy asked.

Until yesterday, he had a mole in the station.

Had?

Yeah, Paulo said. He turned one of our local assets. We took care of that.

Then why bother with this guy if his source is dried up? Mac asked.

He’s relentless, Paulo said. Ambitious. Climbing the ladder. He got one mole, he’ll get another. Ruples talk. The locals aren’t true to the red, white, and blue. Only to the green.

***

Two weeks later, the team gathered at their stepping-off site for the op, a small café in West Berlin. Mac ran his hands all around the booth and the surrounding area, looking for bugs.

The café was small like hundreds of others in Berlin, narrow and dimly-lit with oak booths lining the wall. Mac had chosen it because the team could converse in private.

When they were seated and had coffee, Mac said, Progress reports. Millie?

Got the costume and flowers. Len’s been coaching me on pronunciation.

Yeah, Leonard said. Got rid of that Joisey accent. Now she looks like Olive Oyl and speaks German like a gypsy. He winked at Millie, who returned the gesture with her usual sullen expression.

Snuffy? Mac said.

Borrowed a car and made the rose dispenser. And Len’s credentials, too.

What were you able to use for the rose? Mac asked.

Odorless, colorless mist. The target drops with what looks like a heart attack. He’s dead meat in a couple minutes.

Anything Millie and Len need to know about it?

Don’t breathe it, Snuffy said. We got a venue?

Mac nodded. A café down the street from the embassy. Small and quiet like here, but wider, an open floor with tables. Right here on the map. He unfolded a street map of Berlin and shoved it across the table to Snuffy. It had the locations of the Russian embassy and the café circled in red and the escape route highlighted.

Snuffy pored over the map and showed it to Millie. How’s it look to you, Millie?

Perfecto, was all she said. Millie didn’t often offer much in the way of opinions or suggestions. Whatever the bosses wanted, she’d do. Unless they got something wrong. Then they’d hear from her.

I sat in that café every day for a week, Mac said. Here’s floor plans. He handed sketches to Leonard and Millie. The target should be sitting here. He pointed to a table icon drawn on the sketch. Gives us direct access to the door afterward. Len, is your cover solid?

Snuffy spoke up. Len is a newly-appointed GRU officer visiting from Moscow to meet staff. Nobody here knows him, so the impersonation is sound.

Mac made more notes and studied the street map. Len, you think you’ll have any problem luring Vasilevich out?

I outrank him. I’ll invite him to lunch. He won’t refuse.

Okay, Mac said. Looks like we’re ready. If there’s any reason we can’t go in today, speak up now. He looked around the table. Everyone sat still.

Good. Let’s go. He folded the map and gave it to Snuffy.

They went out, climbed in the car, and drove to the eastern sector, going through one of the checkpoints reserved for German citizens. As usual, Snuffy’s forged papers and Leonard’s fluent German got them through.

Between the border and their destination, Leonard changed into his Russian officer’s uniform. Don’t watch, Millie, he said. You might get excited.

Millie ignored him and looked out the window.

When they arrived at the café, Leonard left for GRU headquarters on foot, and Snuffy waited in the car.

Millie and Mac went inside, sat at a table, and ordered coffee. Millie took a few sips and went into the toilet. She came out with her brown hair down and bare feet. She wore a white flowing dress that fell off her shoulders, a red sash around her waist, and a necklace and bracelets of beads and bangles that rattled when she moved.

How do I look? she asked Mac, spinning around for him so her dress flared up.

Pass the tealeaves, he said.

She went out to the car to wait with Snuffy. Mac stood and paced the floor. He looked at his watch and fidgeted, sitting at the table, then getting up to pace again. If everything was going according to the plan, Leonard was in the embassy, establishing his bona fides, and getting to know Vasilevich. But this was taking too long. They should’ve been here by now. Mac wanted the target taken down before the dinner crowd started pouring in. He looked at his watch again. If Leonard wasn’t back soon with the target, the op would have to shut down.

Mac was seated when Leonard and their prey finally came in at about five. Vasilevich led the way and chose a table. Leonard shook his head and pointed to the one Mac had chosen. Vasilevich hurried to the other table, and held Leonard’s chair for him.

Vasilevich was a short man in his fifties with a pot gut. He was dressed in civilian clothes that didn’t fit and that were heavy for this time of year. His face maintained a wide grin and sparkling eyes as he hovered over Leonard, getting him seated and comfortable. He summoned the server with an officious urgency and sat across the table from Leonard.

They engaged in quiet small talk, smiling and laughing, drinking dark beer, and nibbling pretzels while they waited for their meals.

When the server brought food for the two, Mac stood and walked to the window. Two Russian privates with rifles stood guard outside the door. Those would be Vasilevich’s bodyguards, and they would be a problem. He signaled to Millie, and she opened the car door. He returned to his table. Now it would happen.

Leonard looked up when the gypsy girl came in the door with a basket of flowers suspended from her neck on a strap. Vasilevich followed her with his eyes as she eased over to Mac’s table.

Hey, good-looking, Millie said in a quiet voice no one else could hear. There’s comrades out there with guns. Want a rosebud to nibble on?

"Nein. Fortgehen," Mac said loudly, and she tossed her head and walked to the table where Leonard and Vasilevich sat talking.

Millie made one of her rare smiles, said to Vasilevich, "Kaufen eine Blume für Ihre Frau?" and held out a long-stemmed rose.

"Nein, nein, Sie danken," Vasilevich said in a thick Russian accent, waving at her to go away.

Mac rested his hand on the pistol concealed in his jacket pocket. Leonard covered his face with a handkerchief and Millie held a silk veil over her mouth and nose. She shoved the rose under Vasilevich’s nose. As the Russian pulled back, she squeezed the stem, and a clear mist sprayed out of the blossom. Vasilevich clutched his chest and fell forward onto the table, gasping for air and convulsing. She turned and walked toward the door followed by Leonard and Mac. The two privates snapped to attention and saluted when Leonard came out.

The getaway car waited at the curb, its engine running, its doors open, and Snuffy at the wheel. A commotion arose from inside the café when the staff discovered Vasilevich face down in the weiner schnitzel. One of the guards looked in and rushed to tend to his charge. The other guard loudly commanded the team to halt. Mac tried to pull his pistol, but the hammer got hung up in his pocket lining.

Shit! he said as he tugged on the piece.

The private chambered a round and lowered the rifle’s barrel, pointing it directly at Mac. Snuffy came out of the driver’s side door with a Luger, put a bullet in the private’s heart and another into the brick wall alongside the other private, who was rushing outside with his rifle raised. Millie pulled a .32 semi-automatic pistol from the flower basket and put a bullet into the soldier’s head.

They jumped in the car, and Snuffy screeched tires getting away. He headed for the western sector at about eighty kilometers an hour through the narrow streets.

So much for death by natural causes, Snuffy said over the sound of the motor.

Millie threw the flower basket out the window. Could have avoided all this trouble and just shot the sonofabitch.

Mac smiled as he thought about Bert Allison keeping a low profile until the heat was off.

They barreled through the city, squealing around corners, chasing pedestrians to the curb, and taking shortcuts through alleys and down an occasional sidewalk to bypass the traffic.

What took so long to get to the café? Mac asked as buildings, signs, and lampposts flew past them in a blur while the car hit every bump and rut in the street.

I was a visiting dignitary, Leonard said, hanging onto the back of the front seat. I had to meet every fucking comrade in the place. They all talked endlessly about their heroic adventures on the Eastern Front. I thought I was going to have to shoot my way out.

Still might, Mac said, his pistol drawn and ready.

The speeding car bounced over another bump in the street, a big one this time. Leonard held on more tightly. Jesus, Snuffy, go back. You missed one.

When they got to the checkpoint, Snuffy slowed down, and Mac hoped word hadn’t made it to the guard shack. The conspirators were prepared for a firefight at the checkpoint if necessary, but Leonard stuck his head out the window and barked a command in Russian to the sentry, who saluted and waved them through.

They drove the five hundred plus kilometers straight through to Frankfurt, stopping only for fuel, and arriving just after midnight. Once there, Snuffy ditched the borrowed car, and they split up and went their separate ways. The three men wouldn’t see one another for about two years. It would be much longer before any of them saw Millie.

Chapter 3

On the twelfth of June in 1952, summer vacation had begun, and the children had the whole day every day to play outdoors. A noisy group of boys gathered at the edge of the playing field and formed into teams, chosen one boy at a time for a baseball game. The boys yelled and cheered at each choice.

Harold sat alone on an embankment next to the ball field, reading a book and trying to remain oblivious to the sandlot game forming up a few yards away. The June heat in eastern Virginia beat down, and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and upper lip. Every now and then he’d pull out a red bandanna and wipe the sweat off. He sat facing away from the sun to let his shadow reduce the glare on the book’s pages.

Come on, Harold, we need you to pitch. He looked up from his book. The captain of one of the rag tag teams stood next to him.

I have to finish this book.

What book is more important than a ball game?

Harold held up a copy of Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent.

The kid made a face, said, Aah, and ran onto the field. Harold smiled. The other kids had never appreciated his tastes in reading.

He pushed back his thick brown hair, wet his palm with his tongue and tried to flatten his stubborn cowlick, which popped up again like it always did.

Chickenshit, someone said. Harold looked up. A larger boy stood over him, frowning, fists clenched. He was a new boy, and Harold knew him only as Wallace.

What’d you say? Harold asked.

I said, ‘Chickenshit.’ You’re supposed to be this hot shot pitcher, but you’re too good to play with us.

Go away, I’m busy.

Chickenshit. Wallace moved nearer braced for a fight.

Harold felt the rage coming on. His pulse quickened, and he could feel the thumping in his chest, almost hear it. His temples throbbed in time with the pulsating tunnel vision that saw only Wallace leaning over him. Pressure in the pit of his stomach pushed up.

Apparently no one had warned Wallace about provoking Harold. Or if they had, Wallace had decided to meet the challenge.

No longer in control, Harold set his book aside and jumped up, his feet apart, his chin jutted out. He looked Wallace up and down. Wallace was bigger, but that wasn’t a concern. Harold was past being intimidated by size. If Wallace wanted to fight, Harold would fight.

You don’t want to do this, he said, but it sounded to him like someone else said it.

Fuck you, you little faggot, Wallace said and kicked Harold’s book to one side.

The other kids came running to see the fight. Harold and Wallace circled, facing each other, their fists raised,