Spy for God: No Weapon Formed Shall Prosper

By Dr. Jay Hines

THE FAITH ADVENTURE SERIES: VOLUME ONE
FAITH-BASED ESPIONAGE?

A faith-based spy novel! Some shake their heads and say, “Espionage and Christianity can never mix”. That’s not exactly true, especially considering that the Bible has its own stories of espionage, including the two spies sent into Canaan and the city of Jericho to, “spy out the land” in Joshua 2. God has His spies, it’s true.

In this book, set in the turbulent times of 1968, in the wake of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy, a CIA spy by the name of Charlie Merit thwarts his own assassination attempt then realizes that God intervened for him. Thrilled by the prospect of knowing Jesus, he falls in love with God’s Word, the Bible, then struggles to align his life – and profession as an international spy – with its concepts. Th is is the first volume of Spy for God followed by the second volume, Spy for God: Behind the Iron Curtain in which Charlie Merit continues his mission into Russia and the heart of godlessness where Bible smuggling is the dangerous game to play. Then, get ready for the third volume in the Faith Adventure Series, titled, Th e God of Love and War: Storm Clouds Over London. Set in London in the 1940s when bombs from Nazi planes fell daily and challenged the faith of many godly people, it’s sure to be a page turner and a source of great spiritual insight through a story about God in the lives of several people during a very deadly war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665549523

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© 2023 Dr. Jay Hines. All rights reserved.

Dr. Jay Hines Freehold, New Jersey

Evangelical Clinical Psychologist

Dr. Jay Hines is the host of The American Gospel Hour Radio Program and Psychology and the Word for Today, both modern-day Christian ministries. Visit both programs online where you can hear the programs in their entirety.

Dr. Jay Hines is also the author, Jay Vincent who writes The Robert Boston Spy Series, The Adventures of the Park Street Hounds series, The Crazy World Series, and numerous other secular novels. While those secular books are for the sake of literary entertainment, the Christian series are designed purposely to highlight the truth of God and Christianity in Jesus Christ. For those reasons, please read each book with an understanding of the author’s purpose. Also, read the non-fiction work by Dr. Jay Hines including The God Series which contains Holding onto God and The Art of Loving God and The Jesus Series and many more titles to come.

Spy for God: No Weapon Formed Shall Prosper is the first title in The Faith Adventure Series by Dr. Jay Hines. Many more titles will follow in The Faith Adventure Series including the second title, Spy for God: Behind the Iron Curtain and The God of Love and War: Storm Clouds Over London.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/13/2023

ISBN: 978-1-6655-4953-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-4951-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-4952-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022901902

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

For my dear Bishop Chris Fraley

A man of God and lover of mankind

who opened doors of ordination for

me and supported my teaching and

preaching ministry with confidence

and prayer. God bless you, Bishop!

This is the first installment in

The Faith Adventure Series

Look for other installments in

The Faith Adventure Series by Dr. Jay Hines

including Spy for God: No Weapon Formed Shall Prosper,

and its sequel titled, Spy for God: Behind the Iron Curtain.

Other installments include a third volume in the series

titled, The God of Love and War: Storm Clouds Over London

No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and

every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt

condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD, and

their righteousness is of me, saith the LORD. Isaiah 54:17 (KJV)

For the Word of God is quick and powerful

and sharper than any two-edged sword

piercing even to the dividing asunder

of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow,

and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents

of the heart – Hebrews 4:12 (KJV)

Thy Word have I hid in my heart

that I might not sin against thee – Psalm 119:11 (KJV)

CONTENTS

Mid-Summer

Kiev, Soviet Union

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Zamoskvoreche District, Moscow

White House, West Portico

Kremlin Gulag, Moscow

The Kremlin Great Palace, Moscow

Bethesda, Maryland

Camp David, Maryland

The Moscow Home of Dr. Andre Chevensky

Outside the Smolensky Train Station, Moscow

Catotoctin Mountains, Maryland

The Kremlin Prison, Moscow

Camp David - Again

Home of Director Elliott, Alexandria, Virginia

U.S.S. Sequoia, The Presidential Yacht

U.S.S. Sequoia, Potomac River

Presidential Suite, U.S.S. Sequoia

Zamoskvoreche District, Moscow

Potomac River, South of Washington, D.C.

Soviet Hospital, Moscow, Soviet Union

Potomac River, Oleander Inlet

Aboard the U.S.S. Sequoia

AUTHOR’S NOTE ABOUT THE BOOK

This is a work of evangelical fiction but it is based on many real life situations common to the era and localities about which it was written. The era and locality for Spy for God: No Weapon Formed Shall Prosper is America and the Soviet Union in the late 1960s, a period of time when political upheaval in America and the Soviet Union resulted in what was known as The Cold War. The Cold War consisted of many things including tension between the United States and the former Soviet Union, the threat of nuclear attack, the Red scare which had to do with people affiliating with Communism and then being ostracized from American pubic and professional life because of it and many other distressing things. The Cold War, because of its intensity and seeming ubiquity, was all consuming for many and troubles associated with it filled the news headlines daily in that era and it was a constant source of concern in American pulpits and pews, too.

Leading up to this time, prior to the 1960s, the McCarthy Hearings with Senator Joe McCarthy had shaken up the United States by exposing many Communistic sympathizers who were guilty of sympathizing with or being a Communist and some who were not guilty but who were ostracized anyway. The 1960s was a time of trying to overcome unique tensions in American history and a time electrified by the exciting new prospect, so public in the speeches of President John F. Kennedy, of a voyage to the Moon. This Moon adventure that filled so many Americans with dreamy prospects of space, the stars, and lunar landings was a prominent feature of the 1960s and figures powerfully into the story told here. All of that was true and can be seen in the movie, The Right Stuff by Tom Wolfe.

The 1960s was also a time when spies were active like never before and that is the crux of our story, about an American spy who finds God in the midst of Cold War turmoil and whose practice of espionage is changed by his newfound love for the Word of God. That profound love for God’s Word becomes an example to us, as readers, because God’s Word is still with us, still rich and vibrant, and it is still the basis of purpose and affect in our everyday lives.

Those who are familiar with the turbulent 1960s will also find many instances about this story, including the settings and the dynamics occurring within those settings, to be real to life. This book, though fictitional, has been written as realistically as possible because many of the situations, somewhere in the dark past of time and history, did absolutely occur - or in some fashion, occurred similarly, as stated above.

I want to be clear that the primary purpose of this book is to uphold the sanctity and importance of God’s Word and to show the truth in it as it applies to our lives. While the second volume, Spy for God: Behind the Iron Curtain details the struggle in the Soviet Union in the 1960s for God’s Word, this first volume deals with the viable threat to Christians and God’s abiding protection. There is a whole doctrine about threat to Christians and how God protects them so that no weapon formed against Christians shall prosper – unless there is an overriding purpose for allowing harm to come such as to engage in suffering in the image of Christ.

It is also important that readers not interpret that the author intends by overt or covert statement or through any insinuation to portray the people of Russia as enemies of the Word of God or opposed to the will of God for His people. It’s true that there was a time when many Russians opposed God’s Word while people of other lands, including America, did the same thing. Many people throughout the world, over the course of history, have lashed out through the medium of egregious behavior at the people of God and have denied them the right to possess the Word of God, even making martyrs of them in Russia and in nations other than Russia. While the former Soviet Union and Communist China are known very well for persecuting Christians, they are not the only countries who have done that or who are still doing that, even today. Even in America, persecution for Christianity was historically common and is still common, just not on a broad scale. According to The Voice of the Martyrs, a modern-day organization that studies persecution of Christianity around the world, evidence is available that shows that persecution of Christians is stronger now, in the 21st century, all around the world, than it ever has been in history.

Many things have changed in the former Soviet Union over the passage of five decades since the late 1960s, including the viewpoints held by the Russian people regarding God, His people, Jesus Christ, and His Word. Great religious crusades have been held in that vast nation over the years since 1968, including campaigns by the Reverend Billy Graham and other evangelicals like him. For the most part, and to some degree because of evangelical Christianity, the Cold War with its abuses against the people of God has met with its demise and today the Bible is read openly in churches, homes, and even the streets throughout Russian cities without fear of reprisal. In many places in Russia today, God’s Word is openly shared and adored as is Jesus Christ, the Savior of the World – including Russia! This is testimony to the God-fearing nature of the Soviet people and their ardent love for Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

There are also many wonderful Russian people all around the world today including in America; they existed in the Soviet Union in 1968 and they still live there and elsewhere in the world today. The author knows many Russian people and has had splendid conversations with them regarding the content of this book. Most of them refer to the attitudes and behaviors of the Russians in this book who were opposed to the Word of God and Christianity as people of Russia belonging to the old order.

Hopefully, this work will encourage everyone including Russian and American people to take renewed interest in God’s Word and to place greater value on it than ever before. What a wonderful gift we have in God’s Word, a gift far beyond our ability to truly comprehend in this world. It is a special gift from God, His Word, for the particular reason that it tells us about Jesus Christ, all throughout its sacred pages. Jesus is the Author and Finisher of our sacred faith and eternal salvation.

Claim Jesus and His Word today as your own!

We have God’s Word today but never know what tomorrow holds. Cherish God’s Word while it is still called today.

Dr. Jay Hines

Freehold, New Jersey

August 2022

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PRELUDE

-March 1968-

Warsaw

O n a cold winter evening in Warsaw, Colonel General Yuri Kolokov stood in the shadows made by the snow-covered trees and listened to the music coming from the old stone church just across the street from where he stood. It was music like he’d never heard before, but still he knew what it was. Sweet and melodious, sang in Polski , Polish dialect that Kolokov knew, with rich consonants and flowing vowels, it touched him deep inside his soul and stirred his senses. The baroques and anthems of his country of Russia, sung and played with such fervor, couldn’t match the heart-felt intensity of the sacred hymns he heard that night or the words of the songs which he understood all too well, and he was visibly moved by it, warm tears coursing down his cheeks.

And then the snow started falling and the light from the street lamps outside the building caught in the heathery white flakes, illuminating them like Christmas ornaments if for only a fleeting moment until they hit the ground. Kolokov looked up at the sky, at the crescent shape of the moon barely visible through the snow clouds and he let the snowflakes fall on his face. For a moment he felt like a child again and then he wished he could be. Things were simpler then, when he was a child, when he was allowed to make choices without fear, without reprisal from those in the Soviet government who seemed to own him now. Making a choice now could easily mean death and he knew that all too well.

Time passed and the glorious music continued, hymns by Handel, Wesley, and Watts played on a vibrant pipe organ whose volume seemed to shake the ground the church stood on. This was a Polish community, far from Moscow where Kolokov had come on official State business, and he was surprised at the open show of their faith – back home in Russia, they would all be arrested and incarcerated in the gulag. But here, in Poland, their liberty was amazing and full of the vigor of spiritual life, something foreign to Communist Russia, the Soviet Union.

Kolokov stood there, the vibrato of the organ and the singing of the people causing his legs to tremble, and he pondered his life, time passing like it had no meaning; he thought about his predicament and fear filled his mind again. Kolokov knew that if those who owned him now as a political slave to the great Rodina, if they discovered what he was about to do, they would arrest him and put him in the gulag for life. Worse, they might even end his life. But his life as a member of the Politburo, a political animal for the Rodina, had made him a slave to Communism and had barred him from God, from the very reality of His own existence as a man, made in the image of God, and he despised it. He had read about the creation of mankind in the Bible and had heard it preached in the Russian Orthodox church when he was a child, and he believed it was true, all of it. Since that time, so many lies had been told, so much to defile the truth of God which flooded his mind now with rich thoughts and realizations like never before. Now, this act he was about to do would be an open show of his belief in God and of God’s truth and it would easily break those ugly bonds from off his soul like chains made of clay.

And Kolokov knew he was being watched, had been under surveillance by agents from the Kremlin, officers of the KGB who were ordered to scrutinize his actions while he was in Poland and to bring back a report to the head of the KGB who was waiting anxiously. If he did this act, made an open show of his wish to go with God, this report would go all the way up the chain to President Brezhnev himself!

And the more Kolokov thought about it the more his heart warmed. Suddenly, he could feel the presence of God, closer than the snowflakes melting on his face, and he wanted to go with that presence, didn’t want it to leave. The Cold War was something different to him now, a war fought with frozen hearts that didn’t honor God, didn’t even know Him or recognize His truth or Being. Nobody in the Rodina, at least the Politburo, accepted or even believed in Jesus Christ other than to consider that He was a pious Jew who was killed by His own people and the Romans centuries ago; nobody believed He was the Son of God much less the Savior of the World. For Kolokov to turn away from God and the truth of Jesus Christ now would be to accept a heart filled with ice; Kolokov wanted a heart filled with God even if it meant living out his days in the deepest dungeon of a Siberian gulag. At least God would be there with him, he reasoned.

In that moment, Yuri Kolokov made his decision, a decision for his soul this time and not a decision like so many times before for Mother Russia. In that moment, Yuri Kolokov decided to follow God and he walked across the cobblestone street, opened the old wooden door of the ancient stone Church, a blast of godly music greeting him like a huge embrace from none other than God Himself, and Kolokov entered the glory of the Lord on earth.

The church was filled with people, probably 500, all of them singing heartily and in tune with the massive pipe organ whose organist continued to play, even when Kolokov entered from the back of the sanctuary and started down the center aisle in sight of everyone, heading for the altar in the front of the church. It was a huge public display, so open and carefree for a Soviet officer, and especially one of such high caliber as Kolokov. But he didn’t care – he only wanted God.

Kolokov walked briskly down the center isle of the church and made his way to the altar, the music swelling with a crescendo that marked the occasion of his conversion to Christ well. The hymn being sung was Crown Him with Many Crowns and the lyrics of honor to Christ perfectly matched the sentiments in Kolokov’s heart at that very moment. At the altar, Kolokov knelt, weeping, and poured out his confession to the Lord, accepting Jesus as his Savior.

Now, Yuri Kolokov was a Christian and he had made an open show of it, especially for the two darkly clad KGB agents who entered the church directly behind him and stood at the back of the sanctuary, watching as Kolokov knelt at the altar and gave his heart to God.

Now, the die was cast and there was no turning back. Yuri Kolokov was going with God and there was no stopping him!

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1

MID-SUMMER

1968

NEAR UNION STATION, WASHINGTON, D.C.

I t was mid-summer and a day that CIA officer Charlie Merit would never forget, June 8, 1968. Standing on the in-field just beyond where the rail line made its final stretch toward Union Station, Merit pulled his hat from off his head and placed it over his chest. The train he was waiting for was four hours late and he knew why. It was getting dark, the sun setting in the west and fireflies were dancing around the rail track, as if they too were waiting for their famous visitor to pass by.

Now as he stood there, Merit noticed that the ground was uneven, laden with large round stones mixed with chunks of coal and shale that smelled like oil and he checked his balance. He was in brogans, typical agency shoes, and the soles were thin. Anxious as he waited, like so many others, he hadn’t even noticed how the big rocks dug into the bottom of his feet – he needed to buy better shoes, there was no doubt about that.

And the hat Merit held over his chest concealed the pain he felt in his heart, just like other Americans at that time, because of the recent death of Robert F. Kennedy, the Senator from New York and hopeful presidential candidate. Kennedy had been giving McCarthy a run for his money in the primaries and Nixon was sweating profusely, as usual, just at the thought of a challenge from Kennedy. The aura created by RFK’s brother, JFK, and the assassination had made the Kennedy boys almost mythical in their political stature. But everything came crashing down when a young man named Sirhan had shot Robert point blank in the back of his head in the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles two days before. Kennedy had only lived a few hours after that fatal shot and the world was plunged once again into another ugly nightmare like it had suffered only five years before when Robert’s brother, President John F. Kennedy, had fallen to an assassin’s bullet in Dallas.

Then the eerie evening silence around the track was broken when the whistle blew and the gray and black funeral train pulling twenty-one cars, including the Penn Central open platform business car with Robert Kennedy’s casket in it, came into view. There were others standing in the in-field, hundreds of people, but Merit had found a place to stand alone; he knew that not far away, tens of thousands if not more had gathered at Union Station for the arrival of the funeral train and Kennedy’s body. Being alone during an immense occasion like this was somewhat of an anomaly, a kind of privilege, one might say, to be alone with one’s thoughts and share of the public grief over the loss of this second Kennedy brother, and Merit caressed his sorrow.

Looking at his wristwatch, Merit felt impatient even though the train was there now. A little after 9:00 p.m. But there was a reason why the train was running late; apparently, according to someone who had heard a radio report, two bystanders had gotten onto the track near Elizabeth, New Jersey to see Kennedy’s train and had been killed by another passing train called The Admiral. That tragedy had only added to the grief of the day. The grief of that tragedy would have been unbearable to Robert Kennedy had he been alive and knew that two lives were lost because of him.

Merit had seen Robert Kennedy giving a speech a few weeks before and had felt an affinity for him when Kennedy looked at him in the crowd and smiled. Merit was sure their eyes connected, at least that’s what he told everyone. There was so many people there that night, thousands of them, and Kennedy looked right at Merit – a moment etched in time, at least Charlie Merit’s time. What were the odds of that, that Kennedy really looked at him? Merit wondered.

And the face that Merit looked into that night, from his place eight rows back from the stage, was classic Bobby Kennedy with the toothy grin, the sweep of the hand across the wave of flowing hair over his forehead, and then a peace sign from Kennedy and Merit returned the peace sign. On anybody else, that smile would have been labeled, bucktoothed, but on Kennedy it was famous and admired, there were no bucktoothed Kennedy boys. Yes, for Charlie Merit, it was a moment etched into time. Robert Kennedy most likely forget him as just another face in the crowd – Kennedy met hundreds of thousands of people during his campaign – but Charlie Merit would never forget that singular moment, if but for a second, with Robert Kennedy.

Both Kennedy brothers had always supported what the agency was doing, the Central Intelligence Agency, and Merit had hoped that Bobby Kennedy would win the Presidency. Robert Kennedy as President would make the programs the CIA wanted to run, Cold War programs of espionage and counter-espionage, a reality. Without Kennedy, Merit felt alone and hopeless just like his colleagues in the agency felt. What would happen now? Would they be doing a high-wire act without a net? Merit feared it would be true.

The locomotive gathered momentum as it approached and Merit thought it odd how quiet everyone was; there was an unearthly silence covering hundreds of acres studded with quiet, statue-like people standing silently all around the track bed, so unusual considering the thunderous applause that shook the earth only the week before and all throughout the springtime whenever Robert Kennedy made an appearance. He was like a rock star, greater than a rock star, and that massive applause followed him everywhere he went.

But it was all different now, all the applause was gone, faded into the national tragedy of assassination as people looked with awe instead of applause. How could you applaud an assassination victim when the sense of agony and dispossession ripped at your guts?

And then the train passed, the gray and black engine growling along the steel tracks followed by the trailing cars and then the funeral car at the end that was draped in the red, white, and blue of the American flag. That trilogy of colors had always inspired Merit but somehow they failed to cheer him this-evening. Actually, Merit thought, looking around, they didn’t seem to cheer anyone that day and they almost seemed like a mockery because of all the turmoil and pain they tried to cover ensconsed in a wooden coffin inside the last train car. America, in 1968, was becoming a hollowed-out image of itself, something devoid of the power it once had to give people hope, Merit thought with dismay. He imagined that the Kennedy family – and the political powers that be – thought the funeral train would be an honorable final tribute to RFK but, instead, what they had created was another visible scene of discouragement for Americans over the loss of an honorable America and an even more honorable American, Robert F. Kennedy. What hope was lost when the idea that was shaping-up into fact of a Robert Kennedy presidency was shattered the night of June 6th? And where had it gone? 1968 was witness to the pain of a democracy falling apart and Merit shook his head as he stood there, watching the funeral car pass him by, its lights turned-on inside the rail cars while darkness gathered all around those spectators watching from the infield.

And then, for a brief moment, just like before when he had locked eyes with Kennedy, Merit saw the coffin through the windows of the train car; someone had lifted the coffin off of the bier and placed it on chairs inside of the car so that people standing in the infield and along the tracks could see the Senator’s casket as the train went by, their last glimpse of anything having to do with Robert F. Kennedy.

Then the vision was gone, but not before it was burned into Merit’s brain like so many others who saw the casket through the windows. And the train passed by, disappearing down the lonely rail track on its trek toward Union Station and Arlington Cemetery beyond. RFK would be buried next to his assassinated brother, JFK, on a lonely little hillside not far from the city, the nation’s capital where they both served until their deaths.

Merit dropped his hat back onto his head and then he walked down the embankment to his car. He had parked just over the hill, beyond some trees and his partner, Sam Clay, was leaning against the front fender of the agency-issued Chevrolet. Clay chose not to see the train carrying RFK’s coffin, not because he didn’t sympathize, but because he didn’t like crowds and had an inordinate fear of being photographed. As spies for the Central Intelligence Agency, both men were required to avoid being photographed. But Clay went to extreme measures to avoid it and at times appeared and disappeared like a ghost. It was amusing for Merit to see his partner act this way and he occasionally ribbed him for being skitterish about the shutterbugs.

How’d it go? Clay asked as Merit approached.

You mean was I photographed?

Clay placed his hands on his hips. Very funny. I’m sure you were.

Photographed?

"Yes, probably several times. Your face will be on the cover of Life Magazine by the end of the week, Clay laughed. CIA spy, Charlie Merit, ogles funeral train of Robert F. Kennedy, he continued. Every terrorist or criminal mind from here to Tallahassee will see your ugly mug and pin it up on their wall."

Merit laughed. You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?

Clay nodded then his face became somber again. No, how was it, really? I could feel the rumble of the train from all the way over here. What did you think?

"Sad, it was very sad, Merit replied as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the Chevy. A lot of people came out, though. I can only imagine if all those people would have had a chance to vote for him. He’d have won the White House by a landslide."

Clay nodded and reached over to turn the radio on. You’re probably right about that. Only time will tell if one of the other candidates was behind the shooting.

Merit dropped the transmission into reverse and then frowned at Clay. "No, you don’t actually think McCarthy had something to do with it? Not Nixon, no way! What a coup that would be."

Clay raised his hands, interrupting Merit. "I didn’t say anything about Nixon so don’t repeat that to anybody. You’ll have the Secret Service investigating me and the last thing we need now is an inter-agency investigation with me at the center of it."

Merit backed the Chevy out from behind the trees then drove through the barren lot abutting the roadway, dust boiling out from behind the car as they went. On the road, Merit steered the black Chevy toward the George Washington Parkway, intending to return to Langley and the CIA headquarters building by that familiar route so Clay could pick-up his car from the parking lot.

As they drove along, Clay was busy thumbing through his wallet counting his money and Merit was flipping through radio stations, catching music between static including the Beatles, something by Peter, Paul, and Mary, and then Al Phillips’ AfternoonTalk Show where he was discussing the tragic death of Robert Kennedy with a guest who was speculating about who might have been behind the assassination – if anyone other than Sirhan was behind it, that is.

Clay looked up from his wallet and nodded toward the radio. "See, I’m not the only one. They’ll be arguing about this for a long time. They’ll implicate everyone, everyone from Johnson to the, the – Beatles."

Merit laughed heartily. You really think Ringo and Paul, maybe John was behind the assassination? That’s just downright ridiculous to even say.

But you’ve got it on that station and Al Phillips is always trying to say something sensational to stir up his ratings. I’ll bet you ten dollars he implicates Johnson next. You know he already said that mobster, Giancana did it. He’ll say Johnson next, good old President Johnson had John F. killed, too, so now let’s get rid of the little brother!

All right, that’s enough of that so let’s listen to something else, Merit said, flipping the tuning knob again until a familiar voice with a southern accent came through the speaker. It was the evangelist, Billy Graham and Merit reached to flip the knob again.

Wait a second, leave it there. Let’s hear what he has to say, Clay insisted.

Merit looked at Clay, reproof on his face. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

No, no, I’m not kidding in the slightest. Let’s hear him.

"Our nation has just suffered a terrible loss and you want to hear Billy Graham?"

"You bet I want to hear Billy Graham and that’s exactly what you need to hear in a time like this – something about God, Clay reasoned. That’s why Graham’s on the radio today, because our nation has suffered a shattering loss."

Sam Clay, you’re scaring me. Have you gotten religion or something and I don’t know about it?

"Look, if Robert Kennedy can die so can anybody else including you and me. We’re not actually in the safest profession if you haven’t noticed. What is the life expectancy of a spy, especially with the Cold War going on, huh?"

Merit shrugged his shoulders and teemed the wheel of the car, cutting through traffic on the parkway.

Hey, I’m not a Bible thumper over here and I’m not going to say I know a lot about it but I am going to start paying attention to these things, Clay explained.

"Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. Maybe Billy’s got an opinion on why Sirhan killed Bobby."

"Or maybe he won’t say anything about it. Maybe he won’t get wrapped up in the ‘who did it’ and will tell us something that’ll help us instead," Clay said, slipping his wallet back into his trouser pocket.

Merit was quiet after that, surprised by what Clay had said, and he listened to the strong, evangelical voice coming through the radio as Graham preached about the three crosses and Jesus dying on the center cross. And then he told how one of the thieves who was crucified with him asked Jesus right then and there for forgiveness for his sins and was saved. Jesus forgave him on the spot! No groveling, no shame, no rebuke, just pure, clean, easy-to-achieve forgiveness. Merit thought that was remarkable, but he wasn’t about to express that to Clay.

"Okay, so that’s how it’s done, huh? Merit said, jesting as Graham gave an invitation to accept Christ over the radio. Merit felt embarrassed, a strong and clever spy like him, and he didn’t want Clay to think he was affected in any way by the message Graham had delivered but he did have a suspicion about it all, and a question to go along with it. Just come down and shake Billy’s hand and accept Jesus?"

Clay nodded. If Billy said that’s the way, then I guess that’s it. He smirked. Hey, do I look like a preacher over here?

Merit glanced at Clay. "Well, now that you mention it, yes, as a matter-of-fact you do look like a preacher with the gray suit, black tie, and spiffy haircut. Where’s your church, pastor?" Merit laughed heartily.

Clay shook his head. "It’s the agency suit and the haircut, makes us all look like preachers… but ignore that and listen to what Billy has to say."

It’s a little late for that, Merit laughed. Maybe I should have paid closer attention when I was a kid in Sunday school. They were always talking about stuff like that, you know, religion, trying to indoctrinate us when we were kids so they could hopefully avoid the pranks and shannanigans they knew we were going to engage in once we became teenagers."

You went to Sunday school? Clay was surprised.

Once or twice, I did, yeah, why? Merit was defensive.

How was that?

Going to Sunday School?

Yes.

"Well, it was too long ago to remember. Hey, let’s not reminisce about my childhood or yours, it makes me feel – weird," Merit complained.

Hey, big tough guy, you’re too tough to think about stuff you learned as a kid? Clay razzed. It might do you some good, you never know.

Merit looked at Clay with a face of stern reproof - again, almost disdain. "You don’t even know what you’re talking about. You never went to Sunday school and this religion thing, well, it’s something you don’t really know anything about. Stick with the spying and leave religion to the experts like good old Billy there and we’ll get along better as partners. Got it?"

Clay frowned. Just flip through your stations and find another talk show host who wants to clobber us up with theories about the assassination and everything will be fine.

GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Later that night Charlie Merit pulled the Chevrolet up to the curb in front of his Georgetown apartment and lit a cigarette. He didn’t want to smoke in the apartment and often he sat in his car for five or ten minutes once he arrived home to finish off a Lucky Strike before going in.

The tobacco tasted good and Merit rolled his side window down just an inch or two so the smoke he exhaled would waft out the car window. That was another thing Clay complained about, the smell of cigarette smoke in the agency car; the agency prohibited smoking in the cars but who was checking and what were they going to do if they caught spies smoking in their cars, fire them? Merit laughed to himself when he thought about the absurdity of a spy being fired for smoking a cigarette in an agency car. Far worse things were happening in the agency and discipline, from what he had seen, was rare.

Georgetown was quiet that night and a misty fog had settled in so that the historic street lamps glowed with a ghostly luminescence. Two or three cars went past, their tires making a distinct sound like rubber on glue as they rolled over the wet bricks of the street and a brief rain shower from about twenty minutes before had doused the streets in Georgetown with rainwater which now dripped from the leaves of the trees including the one directly over Merit’s car so that the windshield was wet.

The tobacco from the Lucky Strike tasted sour in Merit’s mouth now– usually toward the end of the stick the tobacco held more resins and gave a bitter taste – and Merit pitched it out the window and then rolled the window back up. He had left his file case in the trunk and decided not to take it in tonight; there was nothing in it he had to look at and all he wanted to do anyway was have a drink, a little Dewar’s scotch, and go to bed. Tomorrow he would get new orders from the Director of his division, counter-espionage, and he was excited to see what the next few weeks or months might hold for him. Getting new assignments was always an exciting time in the agency and every spy looked forward to it with great anticipation.

Merit climbed out of the Chevy and locked the car door. A chilly breeze gusted by and he pulled his raincoat around himself, buttoning it just before a second gust of wind spit rainwater in his face. Ducking his head so the brim of his hat would catch the rain, he trotted off across the street. Merit had lived in Georgetown for nine years, ever since he first started with the CIA, and he loved the historic district. JFK had lived just up the street for a short while when he was President-elect, waiting to be inaugurated and to move into the White House. Merit had seen Jack and Jackie get out of a limousine in front of their Georgetown residence during that time, years before, while he was out on a stroll through the neighborhood; that was an exciting time and Georgetown still breathed with that special elixir of nostalgia, something akin to Camelot.

At the sidewalk, Merit unbuttoned his raincoat and slipped it back a few inches so he could reach into his suit pocket for the key to his apartment. He never left the key on the ring with his car keys because it was too easy for someone, anyone who wanted to do him harm, to steal the key. All it took, he had reminded himself, was a few seconds of possession, simply holding the key long enough to make a wax impression and someone, a stranger, a Soviet spy, or maybe an assassin had access to you home. Because of that, Merit had a special compartment sewn into all of his suit jackets where he kept his key, a pocket that even Houdini couldn’t breach without Merit knowing it.

Just then, when Merit glanced up at the Dover white door of his townhouse, a dark image in a trench coat and black fedora emerged from the bushes and the fog directly in front of Merit. Merit was startled and he was about to turn back toward the street when he saw the glint of a nickel-plated pistol in the stranger’s outstretched hand, pointing right at his face.

Instinctively, Merit reached for the Colt revolver that he carried in a shoulder holster under his left arm but it was too late. The mysterious gunman pulled the trigger of his revolver and Merit saw a blaze of orange fire burst from the muzzle of it. It happened so quickly, within an instant, and yet to Merit it seemed like it happened in slow motion. And then he felt something hot tear through the top of his right ear and it jerked his head around harshly to the right.

Merit stepped backward to regain his balance and the gunman advanced with a snarl on his face. Momentarily, the would-be killer dropped the gun to his side and then brought it back up again, point-blank into Charlie Merit’s face just like a few seconds before. In that strained moment, Merit thought about RFK’s funeral train growling along the steel tracks, the people standing in crowds all around the infield, he thought about his father, and then about what he had heard on the radio earlier that day about death, God, and salvation and it all came back to him in an instant, a millisecond of time. He could hardly believe all those thoughts could transpire in a matter of two seconds, but they did. And then, oddly, he heard the southern accent as Billy Graham spoke in his memory, a snippet of his radio broadcast from that afternoon, and then he remembered his argument with Clay. It was amazing how his mind could cover so much territory in a matter of two or three seconds and even more amazing that he had time to realize that fact; it was like over a matter of milliseconds he was thinking about thinking and it amazed him. How did he even have time to be amazed and to realize that he was amazed? Had time stopped? Was he dead? He had heard about this, how the mind races over years of memory in only seconds of time when facing death, but he never imagined that he would experience it first-hand. Being a spy, in such a deadly profession, like him and Clay had talked about that very afternoon, he should have expected something like this.

The gunman hissed something in a Slavic tongue and Merit could feel the butt of his gun under his coat. But his hand, straining to reach it, was barely on it, held back by the button of his suitcoat which was fastened.

Then the gunman, his face letting go of the emotion etched there that gave way that he was determined to unleash Hell on Charlie Merit, pulled the trigger of his pistol again and the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Again, another click of the trigger, a curse of frustration from the gunman, and the hammer fell on either an empty chamber or a dead round. Maybe both had been dead rounds, Merit thought. Surely, this assassin had loaded his pistol to the max but something stopped him, maybe the dampness of the evening or cheap bullets, maybe both, Merit reasoned.

The gunman looked at his pistol, holding it out in front of him for inspection, never thinking, it seemed, for even a moment that Merit might pull his pistol and finish him off. Some brazen assassin, Merit thought.

Merit blinked with surprise then looked at the misfired gun with astonishment – at the same time the gunman was inspecting it, too. Then the gunman hissed something obscene at Merit, turned and then disappeared into the fog, leaving Merit standing in bewilderment on the street, his hand still reaching for his pistol.

What’s going on out there? a woman’s voice called from across the street.

Merit recognized the voice and he turned to see his old neighbor, Charlotte Andrews standing in the open doorway of her townhouse, staring out blindly into the fog.

It’s okay, Mrs. Andrews, I – I accidentally tripped over a trash can, Merit lied.

Charlie? Is that you Charlie? Mrs. Andrews called out. She was nearly ninety years old and partially blind.

It’s okay, Mrs. Andrews, everything’s fine, Merit replied, his voice wavering. He hoped she didn’t notice.

But the garbage cans aren’t out, Charlie.

Merit took a deep breath and then felt a rush of dizziness come on. He felt nauseous; the last thing he wanted to do was pass out and wake up to see Charlotte Andrews trying to revive him.

With determination, Merit staggered sideways and reached for a nearby lamppost, ignoring Mrs. Andrews. Gaining his balance, he slowly made his way toward his front door, his hand clasped over his bleeding ear, shocked and amazed that he was still alive.

Inside his townhouse Merit tripped over the newspaper his land lady had set on the floor in the entryway for him and he caught a glimpse of the headline that said, Robert Kennedy to be buried in Arlington. A shock wave passed through his chest and his head continued to spin as he staggered toward the bathroom. Then the words spoken by Sam Clay came back to him: If Robert Kennedy can die so can we. The words were so clear, almost as if Clay was standing next to him, saying them again. He was being haunted. Not only had his life been threatened by a ruthless assassin but now he was being haunted by the voice of Billy Graham preaching salvation and then Clay’s voice warning him about death; it was a spinning collage of memories from the last twelve hours and Merit suddenly felt like he was either dying or passing out.

Merit flipped the bathroom light on and grasped the edge of the sink. He looked into the mirror and saw that the top of his right ear had been torn by the bullet from the assailant’s pistol and part of the cartilage was hanging rudely like a vicious canine had tore into him. Another inch to the left and he would have been dead just like Robert Kennedy, just like his brother, John and just like Dr. King. He would spend eternity hearing Billy Graham’s voice, his invitation to accept Christ. He would spend eternity hearing Clay’s warning, realizing that it was so true that it had happened to him the same day Clay issued his warning.

In that moment, while the ceiling spun around above him and the floor beneath him, with blood running down his neck and gathering in his collar, CIA spy Charlie Merit knelt on his bathroom floor and prayed the only prayer he knew how to pray: Jesus, save me because I’m a sinner and I’m dying.

Then Charlie Merit passed out.

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2

KIEV, SOVIET UNION

W rapped in a rug and bound with duct tape the only thing that Ralph Phillips could hear was the hum and drone of a car’s exhaust. He could also feel the movement of the car as the driver accelerated swiftly then braked hard, followed by the shifting of the manual transmission. His sense of direction was all askew and the blow he had taken to his head had twisted his other senses so that he thought he smelled turpentine and then the scent of freshly baked bread.

And then the weirdest thing of all during this ordeal happened to Phillips; a kind of synesthesia set-in where he started tasting what he heard and hearing what he saw which was mostly the blackness inside the rug. This sort of thing happens to people under dire distress, a fact that Phillips had only read about in medical textbooks. But now had the unpleasant opportunity to add this to his life experiences. Certainly, this horrible event wasn’t on any bucket list in his possession!

Phillips had been on assignment for the CIA outside of Kiev, a Soviet city about 500 miles south of Moscow, when he had bought a ticket at the local bus station and then stepped into the men’s restroom to relieve his bladder. As soon as he stepped into the stall and closed the wooden door, someone smashed into the door forcefully, splintering it into pieces like a huge popsickle stick. Fumbling with his zipper and pushed up against the wall by the broken stall door so that he was straddling the toilet, Phillips was able to turn halfway around just in time to see the steel shaft of a tire iron hurtling toward his forehead and then he heard the clunk of its cold steel crashing against his skull and he went out like a proverbial light.

Now, tied up and bound with duct tape, he could feel that his pants were wet with urine. To a trained spy like Phillips this meant he hadn’t been in the trunk of the car for very long because the urine hadn’t dried. He also felt wet blood on his forehead, sticky like glue, which meant that the blow he had sustained and that had knocked him out had occurred probably within the last half hour. Head wounds bleed copiously but they also clot very fast, Phillips told himself, drawing upon his medical training from his days as an officer candidate with the CIA at Camp Peary, not far from Langley.

And Phillips’ mind raced with thoughts about why he had been attacked, why he was being kidnapped. Such treatment was probable, especially considering the huge tensions that existed between the U.S. and the Soviet Union. But he had been maintaining a very low profile prior to being captured and had worked-out his cover as a British professor on sabbatical while writing a textbook about Soviet medical theory – stuff about agriculture and growing special high-quality plants with medicinal qualities for making pharmaceuticals. He had even polished his British accent so well that other Brits in Russia had asked him to join them for tea so they could reminisce about England, the Queen, and what good old Harold Wilson, the British Prime Minister, was up to now. Phillips always got a good laugh out of that kind of invitation – one he kept to himself, though – especially because there wasn’t an English cell in his entire body. He was a red-blooded American and a CIA spy at that!

More precisely, though, Phillips was on commission for the CIA because of several promising leads that held the potential for blowing the lid off the secrecy associated with the torpedoed American submarine, the USS Scorpion, which had recently been lost off the coast of Spain under a shroud of mystery. The submarine had been missing for almost a month now with the lives of nearly one hundred sailors on board. The Soviet Union denied any culpability in the sordid matter but the lead Phillips had in his possession said otherwise. That lead had to do with Phillips knowledge of a lone copy of a secret message that was wired to the Captain of the USS Scorpion shortly before midnight on May 16, only two hours before the submarine disappeared. The copy was found pinned inside the trousers of a murdered Soviet spy by the name of Surgi Morlenko. Morlenko was a crusty Russian with very bad manners who was found dead in Paris. Morlenko’s hotel room had been ransacked after his murder but the secret message was pinned inside the leg of the dead man’s trousers. Apparently, Morlenko had anticipated that something might happen to him and he took caution to secure the note from