Osprey

By William V. Healey

OSPREY William V. Healey M.D.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479718863

William V. Healey

In 1931 Bill was born and raised in Manhattan where he graduated from Loyola School before going to Princeton University for his B.A. degree. In 1956 he received his Medical Degree from Columbia and after active duty in the U.S. Navy served on its staff until 1977 when he was recruited to come to Texas. He was a Clinical Professor of Surgery, maintaining his private practice, before retiring from operating in 1995. He has sired four sons and one daughter and now has four – almost fi ve – grandchildren. Bill and Celia, his wife of thirty-fi ve years, live in San Antonio, Texas. He has written some fi fty articles in professional and lay journals. Osprey is his fi rst novel.

Book preview

OSPREY

William V. Healey M.D.

Copyright © 2012 by William V. Healey M.D.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012917508

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4797-1885-6

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4797-1884-9

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4797-1886-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE      Peroxide Charade

CHAPTER TWO      Muffled Hoofbeats, Green Lights

CHAPTER THREE      April in Moscow

CHAPTER FOUR      The End of May

CHAPTER FIVE      Moscow—Six Days Later

CHAPTER SIX      The First Day of Summer at the Zoo

CHAPTER SEVEN      Pork Bellies

CHAPTER EIGHT      Volga Holiday, London Bridge

CHAPTER NINE      Security

CHAPTER TEN      Airborne: August 23rd

CHAPTER ELEVEN      Blood and Popcorn

CHAPTER TWELVE      Act One

CHAPTER THIRTEEN      Act Two—Saturday, 7:30 a.m.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN      Act Three

CHAPTER FIFTEEN      Nightcap

CHAPTER SIXTEEN      Clams

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN      Obey Your Father

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN      Exercise

CHAPTER NINETEEN      Leningrad Astern

CHAPTER TWENTY      Marine Salvage

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE      Something Old, Something New

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO      Accounts

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE      Primo Del Rey

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR      Navy vs. Virginia

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE      Brief Encounter

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX      The Preliminaries

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN      The Party

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT      Turn of the Screw

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE      Square One

CHAPTER THIRTY      RF

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE      The End of the Beginning

To my wife, Celia

It is hard for the imagination to keep ahead of madness.

—Edmund Fuller

CHAPTER ONE

Peroxide Charade

Vladimir Brasolin, MD, had not heard of Osprey. All he knew was the MVD wanted this man to look like these pictures, and his job was to perform that function without curiosity.

He gently removed the nasal packing. Minimal ecchymoses, modest swelling. Nice. He dabbed hydrogen peroxide delicately on the small eschars that were beneath the hairline. Not bad.

Smile.

Sergei Nedelov smiled. His face felt stiff and his nose was sore. He could not breathe through it even with the packing out but it wasn’t bad, he thought, and Dr. Brasolin had told him not to worry about that. It would pass as the edema diminished, and he would breathe normally soon.

Frown.

Uh-huh.

Whistle.

Nedelov whistled poorly.

Turn your head to the left, please.

Now the right. Good.

Brasolin turned in his examining room swivel chair and picked up the glossy prints. He held one up alongside the patient’s face. Front and then side view. He covered the upper, then the lower half of the face, comparing the uncovered portion with the photo. Then both sides. Then the ears. No rush. Very meticulous. Brasolin was a good surgeon and worked on his patient’s face as a sculptor might. He knew something very significant was going on the day Chenenko had brought Nedelov to his office and outlined what he wanted done. Brasolin had not recognized the pictures then or now, but understood quickly that was not part of the equation, and the fewer questions, the better. He did not believe Nedelov was the man’s real name. The doctor was one of a small number of medical realists who knew that medicine and especially physicians were an essential nuisance for those who ran the body politic. Necessary, of course, but many times a dreadful pain in the rear end. Most of them were too proud. Occasionally one came along who was intelligent enough to recognize this and act accordingly. Brasolin qualified. Because he was a good technical surgeon, Sudenov had used him on two or three special assignments previously, and his results had been excellent. This time Chenenko had been told to use him without Sudenov being involved.

Would you like to wash your face with soap and warm water in that sink? Brasolin suggested. Nedelov did as he was told and patted his face dry with a linen towel. That feels better, he said pleasantly. It’s amazing what a little soap and water will do.

It looks very satisfactory, the doctor reassured him. I think we’re going to have a nice result. Here, take a look.

Nedelov looked in the mirror. He combed his hair and put on the proffered glasses. Yes, quite similar, even without the moustache. The patient sat down.

Our instructions, as you know, Nedelov, are that you are to wear the wig and beard at all times in public. Now let’s talk about them.

He got up, went to his desk, and returned carrying a bushy red beard and wig.

No one besides myself and your MVD superiors are to know about this. That is why there is no nurse with us now. There would be under normal circumstances. Since you have been wrapped in bandages, no one has seen you post-op with your normal appearance, and as Comrade Chenenko has made very clear, no one is supposed to. Is that your understanding?

Yes, it is. It has been made very clear to me.

Good. Now about the wig and beard specifically. Do not be afraid to wear them even over the suture lines. These are brand-new—I think they came from the Bolshoi—and have never been worn. When you are alone in a safe place, take them off and wash yourself normally just as you did now. Little by little the incisions will become less tender, and your head and face will become used to its disguise. The point is, don’t be afraid of infection or worsened scarring. It shouldn’t be a problem. Do you have any questions? Brasolin’s tone was kind.

A few, Doctor. First of all, how do I keep the wig and beard clean?

They may be washed with soap and water just as if they were your own hair. Then take them off and let them dry.

Will any sutures need to be removed from the incisions?

No. They are under the skin and will be dissolved by the body.

Should I put any antiseptic solution on the area?

No, that won’t be necessary. Just keep the areas clean as you’ve done here. Any crusted blood can be removed, just as now, with a little peroxide. That should be fine.

How about seeing you again? Should I make an appointment with your office?

I believe your superiors would prefer us to see each other on a more private basis. We’ll check with them about the location, but yes, I do want to see you again in about two weeks.

He looked at his watch. As a matter of fact, Chenenko said he’d be by to see us and should be arriving shortly.

Anything else?

Should I take vitamins?

Oh, one multiple vitamin a day won’t hurt you, but a regular well-balanced diet is all you need.

Iron?

Not if you’re eating properly.

The intercom buzzed. Comrade Chenenko to see you, Doctor.

Good. Send him right in.

Both men stood, and Dr. Brasolin went to the door. Chenenko was all business after shaking hands as he carefully looked back and forth between the patient and the prints. No one spoke.

At last he relaxed and smiled. Gentlemen, my compliments to you both. It seems an excellent first step. Let’s sit down and talk for a few moments.

They left the exam room and sat comfortably around Brasolin’s desk.

Chenenko began. Comrade Nedelov, you have conducted yourself well during these trying days, and you now have taken another step toward our goal. Have you both gone over questions about care after leaving the hospital? Any loose ends?

The doctor spoke, Just one. Where are Comrade Nedelov and I to see each other in, say, two weeks?

You will be notified, Chenenko said pleasantly, but the sentence ended that discussion. Is there anything else?

Heads shook negatively.

Fine. Thank you, Doctor Brasolin, for a beautiful job. May I use your office to speak with Comrade Nedelov privately for a few minutes?

Of course. Brasolin stood up to go. Shaking his patient’s hand, he said, I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Please don’t hesitate to call Comrade Chenenko’s office if you have any problems and he’ll contact me. A nod of agreement.

As Brasolin was about to open the door, Chenenko said, One last request, please, Doctor. I would be grateful if you would send for Comrade Nedelov’s clothes and personal belongings and have them brought here from his room now. Also, empty your outer office of nurses, secretaries, and patients. Everybody. When our patient leaves, I would prefer no one in the outer office.

The door shut. Although it was off, Chenenko unplugged the intercom.

Sergei, when your clothes arrive, get dressed and put on your wig and beard. Leave the hospital and walk to Lenin Avenue. Turn right and walk toward the Academy of Sciences building. As you are walking, a car will stop and a passenger will say, ‘Yuri, can we give you a lift?’ You are to answer, ‘Yes, Dimitri,’ and get in. You will be instructed what to do next. The reason for this seeming nonsense will be made clear in the days ahead. Believe me, Comrade, your cover is crucial and your life depends on it. You are to wear your bushy beard and wig at all times except when you go to the plane’s mock-up and during the  . . . experiments  . . . in the Lubyanka basement. Is that clear?

*     *     *

The covert assassination of the president is a necessity. Preston’s rapid forging of joint Chinese American military power has produced a threat to us—pointed out first by your office—that is unacceptable. No other American politician can do what he is doing to upset the balance of power in the world. The odds are he’ll be reelected for another four years. He must be stopped, but it must be covered, obviously. You are our master craftsman. We know you don’t want the job but it’s yours. And as soon as possible.

The secretary’s words had settled the matter fourteen months ago, and Sudenov’s thinking had passed from disagreement with the command to the method of its execution. Now as he got out of his limousine in the MVD headquarters garage and took the elevator upstairs, he thought the thought again: failure here would mean hospitalization, exile, dismissal, whatever. The end of his family. The lift’s door opened and he went into his office, nodding good morning to the Saturday staff.

The office reflected the man. Beige and brown, the room was of medium size by Kremlin standards. Books, comfortable chairs and a couch, clean desk, Dunhill’s regular (mild) mixture next to a circular green onyx ashtray with two Comoy sandblasts, two hunting prints, and a maroon, orange, and white Moroccan rug in front of his desk, which had two phones on it. Neat, comfortable, functional, privileged.

His eye caught Alexandra’s picture. He thought how much he loved that woman after twenty-six years of marriage, one tragedy, two fine children. When they met during their fellowships in England after the war, they joked about her advanced linguistics at St. Margaret’s Hall, Oxford, while he struggled mastering English for his political science studies at Cambridge. As young MVD operatives, they had both successfully tilled the fertile soil of English academia. Their torrid rendezvous in London had been gentle, humorous, and everything good love should be. Vintage romance. At the end of the year, they returned to Moscow, married, and were lucky enough to get a two-room flat near the university and not far from Luzhniki Park between Priogov Bolshaya Street and Sarvinskaya Embankment. Despite shortages and the wake of Stalin’s madness, things were better under Khrushchev, and their personal life together was a warm sunny day until their first child’s death from anaplastic rhabdomyosarcoma crushed them. He was a darling child and the lump seemed so innocent at first. Problems with the child’s medical care had increased their silent criticism of the ponderous Soviet bureaucracy. Their time in England had expanded reality for them. They had suppressed thoughts of leaving for so long.

Two subsequent children were well, now young adults and a major reason why Anatoly and Alexandra Sudenov continued to excel in their respective jobs. It was a devoted and loving family. He smiled as he looked at Peter, now in his last year of medical school and his younger sister, Karola, the stern-looking gymnast. With luck, she might place in the city championships.

I am genuinely sorry, Mr. Preston, he thought almost aloud, but you see, sir, I have no option. They have made it a you vs. my family confrontation—and you must die. Forgive me, but I think you would do the same.

The intercom buzzed and his secretary announced Chenenko and Telin, deputy directors of Sudenov’s department. Sudenov had placed Chenenko directly in charge of Operation Osprey and then had asked Telin to criticize the overall plan and appropriate details. Telin’s blunt judgments could irritate but were frequently correct. Josef, Sudenov nodded.

Chenenko was precise. As you have requested, I will divide my answer into two parts, but before I do, I would like to make a comment and ask a question. This operation is a direct order from Secretary Zuhansky and two other members of the politburo. Its purpose is to seriously disrupt Sino-American relations and the frightening progress President Preston has made personally with the Chinese leaders. The continuation of his success cannot be tolerated. China and the States united against us is too dangerous, and that is what Preston is doing. That is the basis for Operation Osprey. Do we all agree so far?

The others nodded.

"Very well. My first point then, what you have called the overview: I believe our orders to assassinate the president and extract the assassin are at once easy and difficult, perhaps impossible. Easy in that Preston is exposed frequently and getting him from a crowd would not be all that hard. Difficult in fulfilling Zuhansky’s wish to get the assassin out safely. Although I do not believe the U.S. would go to nuclear war over Preston’s death even if discovered, why not allow the issue to become a prolonged contention with accusations and counterarguments as happened with the pope? After a while, who cares? It all peters out. Americans get bored quickly. Not having to extract the Osprey makes the mission much simpler and more likely to succeed. A capsule of cyanide solves the problem.

My second point deals with the particulars. As far as I can see, your plan to insert our man into the presidential entourage as his private physician is very good but has two potential flaws. Can the Osprey’s exposure be brief enough to avoid detection but close enough to kill him? I don’t know enough medicine to have an opinion about what our doctors have said—I presume they’re correct about it. They certainly all say the same thing. Lastly, I think the extraction plan might work. The Osprey will have to get back to the Georgetown house, but if he does, I think he’ll make it.

Thank you, Josef. Valery?

"My overview is that the whole thing is crazy and something out of a bad novel. So was Mein Kampf. I’m just doing my job.

The particulars. Nedelov looks good. Dr. Brasolin is pleased with his result and so are you, eh?

Chenenko nodded.

"I have carefully reviewed the medical aspects of Osprey’s contact with Preston—theoretically of course, no names—with six doctors and they all have agreed it is entirely plausible. ‘Casual but lethal,’ one said. ‘So simple it could very well work,’ another commented. Perhaps more importantly, I have gone over this in detail with Dr. Slotkin, the chief forensic pathologist at the Institute of Medical Sciences. To answer your question specifically, Comrade Sudenov, Dr. Slotkin has said, ‘There would be no residual drug at the site of injection using your method.’ That would not be true of an injection of insulin or scopolamine, which could be detected at the site of needle puncture. Also, the heart would not be remarkable either at autopsy or on the microscopic slides which would follow. The rapid postmortem changes in the blood would mask our handiwork in it. The only way Osprey’s method could be discovered would be by a rapid examination of the fluid in the eye—a test not done without some clear indication—and there is no reason to believe it would be done under the circumstances we expect to encounter. In short, we have unanimous agreement that our plan is medically sound. I believe the assassination will not be a problem if the Osprey can get close enough. That fulfills the political aspect of our mission even if he can’t be gotten out—and I think he can. The U.S. security people will freeze the plane and hold him closely but they’ll let him go home to change. And that’s all we need. It all depends on Nedelov. If the resemblance is good enough and if we drill him properly, the plan should work.

Say it doesn’t. Worst case. The Osprey is caught and turns into a canary. Tells everything. So what? There’s no trail. We deny everything. We’ve done that before. Then what? Charade time. We send a big wreath. Zuhansky goes to Washington for the funeral. Nuclear war? Armageddon? No way. The United States would never go to war over the death of one man—even the president. Who’d press the button? The vice president? Hell, no. He wants to be president, not dead.

What about the argument that the assassination won’t make any difference in U.S. foreign policy? Weber may continue Preston’s efforts, so why risk war? Sudenov probed.

Don’t ask us, Telin said savagely. Ask Zuhansky—he’s given the orders. Apparently, he and his boy Bityuzov think it will make a difference. Preston’s father was a missionary in China and his son is married to a Chinese American girl. Weber has no similar ties. Reasons? Who knows? We’re in the same position the German general staff was in when Hitler gave them their marching orders: many opposed them but obeyed. We’re carrying out our orders and we’d better do it well. It’s our asses if we don’t.

Lubyanka prison was the cesspool of the human spirit in Moscow. Although its origin was somewhat obscure, its location on Dzerzhinsky Square suggested this location might have been used for public executions in times past. In recent years, the executions and other events had been private. Its prisoners had not been common thugs or local criminals but those who had committed crimes against the state. Just what constituted crimes against the state depended on the whims of the leaders at the time, but there was no disagreement among Muscovites that few people left Lubyanka—except to go to the Gulag archipelago—and no one left it unchanged. The invisible chards of broken spirits littered its floors. Who had any idea how many men, women, and even children had been slaughtered in Lubyanka through the years? It had served as one of the premier human abattoirs in the world.

With marvelous sangfroid, the MVD now used it for its headquarters. Occasionally, special events occurred in the sub-basements. Today was one of those days.

Nedelov was silent as the car entered the courtyard. He idly fingered his painless hairline scar. As on the three previous occasions, guards met him and took him downstairs to the ward. Ward was not quite the correct word, as health was not one of the Lubyanka’s strong points. This dirty, drab, and musty room deep in the basement had an examining table with a soiled gray sheet on it, some unsterile supplies, and a grossly overweight nurse in a stained uniform. An empty bed stood in one corner of an adjacent small room.

The prisoner has just arrived from Lefortovo, Comrade. He’s on his way down now, the nurse said. Everything is ready, just as previously. Everything meant two syringes, a tourniquet and a vial. Outer iron bar doors clanged open and the prisoner was brought in by two uniformed guards and two plainclothesmen. The doors clanged shut. No one spoke. No. 40975 looked around nervously with ferret-quick glances. His shaven head smelled of disinfectant. He wiped a bead of cold sweat from his eyebrow.

Over here. The nurse motioned toward the examining table. Take your shirt off and lie down.

The guards moved with the prisoner, took his shirt off, and then stepped back. He lay down.

No. 40975 was a thirty-four-year-old alcoholic whose crime had been stealing vodka—or trying to—on more than one occasion. He had been drinking heavily since he was fourteen and his cirrhosis was beginning to show. He would never make a productive rehabilitation camp worker in the Urals. Knowing the MVD’s needs, the judge had offered him a choice: prison camp or volunteer cooperation with medical experiments of an essentially non-painful nature. Of course there would be some needles, injections, and so on, and he might even be put to sleep. There would be no operations or anything of that sort. Pharmacologic research, basically. Yes, he would be given alcohol daily until the time for the experiments. Not too much, but enough. Several other men were in the same program. No, talking with them would not be possible now since it might prejudice the results. Perhaps later. He had agreed quickly. After all, it was an important Ministry of Health research project.

This is the doctor, the fat nurse said. She wiped her hands on her filthy apron.

How do, Comrade, Nedelov said pleasantly. That’s fine, just lie there and relax. This is very simple. We’re just going to inject some medicine into a vein in your arm. You’ll get drowsy and go to sleep for a while, and when you wake up, it will be all over. Except for the needle stick, it’s not going to hurt.

Can I have a drink when I wake up? No. 40975 asked from his gray pillow.

Sure, sure. As soon as you’re awake enough for it. He put a rubber tourniquet around No. 40975’s upper right arm. Where abouts are you from, Comrade?

I was born in Molkovo just south of here, the pale prisoner said absentmindedly as he intently watched Nedelov preparing his syringes.

It didn’t take long. Nedelov checked the venous distention in the front of the elbow caused by the tourniquet with his left index finger. He wiped the skin over the antecubital veins with an alcohol swab. Deftly, he introduced a no. 18 needle attached to a 10 ml syringe into the vein and slowly began withdrawing the plunger. The syringe filled with blood. It took seven  . . . eight  . . . nine  . . . ten seconds. All eyes focused on the blood. Dark red. In deliberate sequence, he removed the syringe from the needle, leaving it in the vein, laid the syringe on the adjacent table, and picked up another 30 ml syringe filled with a clear liquid. He attached the new syringe and unsnapped the tourniquet.

Hold still, now, we’re almost done. You may get a little drowsy from this, the nice doctor said reassuringly as he rapidly injected the 30 ml bolus into the vein.

There we are, he said, all finished. He removed the syringe and needle from the arm. Just bend your elbow. He placed a cotton pledget over the needle site. About fifteen seconds passed. No. 40975 was staring at the ceiling and his breathing became audible. Suddenly, his startled eyes widened with apprehension. He reached for his chest and raised his head off the pillow. He tried to inhale but nothing happened. I don’t feel  . . .

Anything, anymore, Nedelov the Osprey murmured as the dying prisoner’s head fell back on the pillow. His pupils dilated, there were three agonal gasps and his alcohol problem stopped abruptly. No pulse. Open mouthed, wide blind eyes, death. Asystole in diastole.

Just like the last time, the nurse said. Do you want to practice the resuscitation now or have coffee first? I brought some more of those vanilla cream cakes you liked.

Let’s go ahead with the CPR. Then we can relax and enjoy ourselves, the Osprey said. He paused and looked at No. 40975. The odor of liquid feces filled the room and an enlarging urine stain spread on the dead man’s pants.

You son of a bitch, you’ve shit in your pants.

The Osprey jumped back. All of you hurry up. PREPARE FOR CPR.

CHAPTER TWO

Muffled Hoofbeats, Green Lights

Yesterday’s showers muffled the hoofbeats. Both well-trained hunters cleared the low fences and walls with no trouble as they cantered easily across the misty Virginia fields. The sun began to burn off the haze and the odors of moist earth and April morning blended with leather and horses. Two ranging Labrador retrievers kept up.

Tough to beat this, Peter, John Andrews said as they slowed the horses to a walk.

"You’re right. Maybe we could resign together and manage a stable. Dealing with