Oakley was good. He was constantly searching for surveillance. He was an intelligence operative who lived only for his mission and the constant effort to improve his craft. Peter had to use all his skill to follow Oakley enough to understand his pattern of movement so he could pick a killing zone and method.

Oakley worked at making his movements as random as possible. Peter knew everyone had a pattern. The effort to avoid leaving a predictable movement pattern was itself a pattern. Oakley parked his car in back of his small apartment building with an outside set of stairs. Oakley’s car, an old Honda, was not hard to find. There were only five or six parking places. Peter had his key to Oakley’s pattern and could now establish a kill zone.

He would kill Oakley as he was locking his car at night. There were enough shrubs in full foliage at this time of year. Oakley had come back to his apartment between ten and eleven o’clock the last two nights. Peter bet that he seldom varied his return on the nights he went out. The car lights coming down the driveway would alert him to Oakley’s arrival.

Peter was thankful he had found this killer before the KGB had and sent Oakley after him. If he left this trained terrorist up to the American authorities, Oakley would either escape, kill one or more of his would-be captors, or be captured and go to trial where Peter could be exposed and charged with killing KGB officers in Pittsburgh and Latrobe. Not a good ending for the Brandons.

Peter was in place, well-concealed behind some shrubs by 9:30 PM. He was a good waiter. Spies, snipers, and stakeout teams had this in common. Impatience got people killed, missions blown, or both. His was not an occupation for the faint-hearted or advocates of “give everyone a fair chance.” Give an adversary like Oakley a fair chance and you could end up dead. No fair chance tonight. Peter chose a hiding place near the most undesirable parking space. Oakley’s had been the last car in the previous two nights.

Peter had picked the right place. At 10:30 PM he saw car lights coming slowly down the driveway. He crouched lower, keeping one eye shut to avert momentary blindness.The engine stopped. Lights out. In the darkness of the poorly lit parking area, he saw the door open and Oakley step out and close the door. From ten feet he had a clear shot and took it. He fired twice more as Oakley was falling.

No one could’ve heard the silenced .22 High Standard. Peter dragged Oakley into the bushes in front of his car, picked up the car and apartment keys from the ground where they had fallen, and climbed the stairs to Oakley’s apartment. He wanted to find some incriminating evidence to include with his report to Batcher.

It felt like the entire building was asleep. These were hardworking people. The first door on the left was Oakley’s. He slipped inside, locked the door behind him and began to search with his muted, small flashlight. After checking the toilet tank, he stood and let his mind focus on the room. He didn’t expect to find anything in the toilet tank, but he had to look.

This man was a dedicated KGB professional who had survived nearly ten years living undercover in America. His hiding place would be in this apartment. It would be easy to open and close. Big enough to hold a handgun, small clandestine radio, encrypting pads, at least one set of alias documentation, and a few simple disguise materials. All incriminating but comforting to have. Peter ruled out the kitchen, bedroom, and sitting room. He focused on a small walk-in closet off the one bedroom.

He studied the small closet for a few minutes and moved to inspect the four-inch baseboard molding. He liked the possibility of the baseboard running from the doorway to the closet wall. Easy access. Good security – Oakley could get in and out of his caching place without have to turn his back on the doorway.

In a few minutes he found the three-foot length of baseboard that was easy to remove. Behind it Oakley had cut and removed three inches of the drywall along the entire three-foot length. Between the 2-by-4 studs, he found what he was looking for. He packed it all into a small valise that he took off one of the closet shelves. Making a quick check, he moved to the door, eased it open a crack, stepped out, and locked the door behind him.

On the way back to the hotel, he went over what he would send to Batcher. This should make a believer out of him if he hadn’t taken down the Hartfords yet.

After midnight the following night, Peter parked a block from Batcher’s house and put his report and the items taken from Oakley’s apartment in the mailbox. He called from a phone booth in Georgetown. When Batcher answered, Peter said, “Get your mail. There will be no follow-up call. You should have all you’ll need. Remember, no attempts to identify me. There are no second chances. Any media reports will alert other members of the illegal network. They do not know each other but do know how to read and watch television. No mention of equipment or espionage agents. You may want to watch the Hartfords instead of arresting them. There are three more in this network. I won’t be using your mailbox again. Goodbye.”

Peter had told his network to relocate to their assigned areas six months before he broke away from the KGB. By now they would be in place with the names he had given each agent. Peter was sure these illegal agents now had no way of contacting the KGB unless they had decided not to move when he instructed them. The KGB had a record of their previous addresses, so with an intensive use of resources, it was possible the KGB could find one or more of them. After all, they had found him.

Peter had directed Harry and Mary Jane Hartford to move to the Leesburg area. If they were there, a simple phone book search may be enough. Otherwise he would have to set up an unscheduled meeting. He had to tell himself again that these people he was betraying were killers in waiting. They were all hardcore communists willing to die for their country.

The next morning Peter studied some local maps. Tomorrow he would find the Hartfords, but first he would do his homework and explore the area. He decided to go as far west on Route 7 as Purceville and then double back to the river crossing at White’s Ferry, from there go through Poolesville to the beltway and take 495 back to Tysons. It was a pleasant drive and traffic was light after the rush hour.

The ferry barge at White’s Ferry was interesting, a bit of private enterprise that would have never been allowed in the Soviet Union. He stopped for lunch in Poolesville and browsed in a local antique store, called Hearthside, recommended by the waitress at the restaurant. He bought some children’s books for Jack and returned to his hotel.

Peter was now ready for his first step to destroy the Soviet network of terrorists under his control. He had a late breakfast in Leesburg the following day. He bought a town map and stopped at a pay phone to look up the Hartfords. They were listed as living on Morven Park Road. Peter drove by the house, a small bungalow on the west side of Morven Park Road, set back from the road, fenced in yard, evidence of a dog in residence, the back of the house not visible from city street, the lot backed onto a wooded area. No good place to set up 24/7 surveillance team. He took several Polaroid shots, dictated some notes, and left the area. No car was visible.

Back in his hotel suite, Peter got out the supplies he had purchased in Leesburg. A ream of paper, sealable envelopes, latex gloves, and a pack of ballpoints. He cleared off the dining table and set up his portable typewriter. His concern was fingerprints. As far as he knew his prints were not in any system and he wanted to keep it that way. When he finished typing in the obvious data such as addresses, physical descriptions, and work skills, Peter added types of weapons in the house according to his own records, the mission assigned, training background, and personality information.

When he finished printing his report, Peter double-enveloped the three sheets of paper. The outer envelope would be removed before putting the information in Frank Batcher’s curbside mailbox. After dark he put his report in the mailbox and called Batcher from an Arlington payphone.

When Batcher answered, Peter only said, “Look in your mailbox” and hung up.

He would send Batcher one more report before going back to Amelia Island. The next illegal agent was a bachelor who lived in a rented apartment in Georgetown. Alias Oakley was a dedicated Communist Party member. His mission was terrorism in the Washington area. He liked to kill up close.

Peter wondered how this fanatic got through KGB screening. Oakley’s brother had been killed early in the Vietnam War in Hanoi, and he held the Americans personally responsible for his death. He had told Peter he would never be taken alive and hoped he would soon be given the go-ahead to start killing Americans.

Peter felt this was not a case he could trust the Americans to handle. If several of them got killed, Batcher would want Peter brought in. No, he would handle Oakley himself and then put his report in the mailbox.

June 1977

 

After a 12-hour drive from Amelia, Peter checked into the Washington Hotel near Tysons Corner just outside McLean, Virginia. Driving that distance with his Florida license plates and parking in the hotel lot added complexity, but he didn’t want to be without a weapon. It wasn’t likely he would run into any KGB agents who knew his face there.

For the past year he had been researching the ranks and assignments of U.S. diplomats to find a CIA officer on the fast track. From his KGB training he knew what to look for. There were several tip offs. One was where the officer lived. Not many CIA officers lived in Washington, D.C., and not many State Department Foreign Service officers lived in McLean or farther west. Daily commuting was a fact of life, and the fewer hours spent in a car going to and coming from work was a strong influence in picking a place to live.

Peter’s checklist came up with a number of candidates. He liked one in particular. A Frank Batcher who lived alone near McLean along Old Dominion in an upscale but not affluent subdivision. This candidate was not a graduate of an Ivy League school, had served three years in the military, saw combat in Vietnam, and held a mid-level rank.

Peter wanted no personal contact with any CIA officer. Telephone contact from a pay phone was the limit. No identification and he wanted nothing from the CIA for himself. He only wanted them to help clean up his network of illegal agents posing as Americans. His first attempt at contact had to work.

He prepared a package to put in the Batcher mailbox. He made sure no fingerprints or other forensics could lead back to him. He included in the package one of the two miniature KGB radios he had kept. In the letter, Peter described in general terms information about his network without identifying himself in any way. He made clear he would control all future communications and any effort to identify him would end the relationship.

After ten o’clock at night Peter walked by the Batcher home and put his package in the mailbox. He then drove into Georgetown and called Batcher from a pay phone. Batcher picked up. “Batcher here.”

Peter said, “Look in your mailbox. I’ll call again in twenty minutes.”

In exactly twenty minutes, Peter called from a different payphone. Batcher answered and said, “An impressive package. What do you want?”

“I want nothing but your help in destroying a KGB network of illegal agents posing as Americans. These people are trained and equipped to cause havoc and mass deaths in America, if and when the USSR decides to begin an attack on the United States.”

“How do I contact you?”

“You don’t. I will contact you.”

“I’ll need some time to get approval for this activity.”

“If you believe that, I’ve contacted the wrong person and I will have to go somewhere else, maybe to another Agency. In one more minute this call will end.”

“If I agree, what is the next step?”

“I call you and tell you everything you will need to pick up a Russian spy. If that works then we will take down another one. I want nothing. No money. No awards. No recognition. If I have anything tangible to give you, I’ll tell you where to find it. You do understand dead drops, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Peter said, and hung up.

1977

 

The Brandons had been in Florida for two years. Peter had heard of Amelia Island and looked for a house there a few days after they arrived from Richmond. He had found a house on a spit of land on the Amelia River with an acre of land and an in-ground pool. The house design fit the setting. It was expensive, and he had had to find a way to pay for it with cash. Driving a Cadillac and wearing quality clothing helped. No one questioned his cash payment. He now had two more bank accounts and safety deposit boxes. His bank in Richmond confirmed he was a depositor. His aim was to get a large part of his wealth legitimate and taxable.

At the tennis club he met a retired Special Forces colonel named Terry O’Brien who suggested he hire a Vietnamese couple to take care of the house and Jack, as well as cook. Terry said they were great people and fighters who fought with the Provincial Reconnaissance Unit in Quang Ngai Province in Vietnam. Terry worked with them during the war and helped them get to the States. Le Dinh Nguyen and his wife quickly became indispensible to Peter.

They were wonderful with Jack. He was now five years old, and he loved them. Peter felt he could travel without worrying about Jack. Terry also introduced him to a breeder of Bouvier des Flandres. As soon as Jack saw the black, roly poly puppies, Peter knew he had to have one. He selected a male pup and when the puppy was 12 weeks old, he came to live at the Brandon house. From that day on Jack and the Bouvier he named Rip were never apart. Peter was astonished at how the dog watched over Jack. He always stood between Jack and any danger, including dangers only a Bouvier could see. Jack was a strong swimmer, but if Jack was in the pool, so was Rip.

Peter and Terry became good friends. They played tennis together at the Amelia Island club and practiced martial arts together. Peter had been trained in the USSR by North Koreans in their martial arts system called Hapkido, a very deadly fighting style. Terry had some military training in unarmed combat but he was more of a natural street fighter. He was some years older than Peter but could hold his own on the tennis court or in the dojang.

Terry was also an excellent marksman. His specialty was shooting at distances longer than 250 yards. He had been a sniper in Vietnam, often working far in front of Marines in I Corps with only his spotter and a radio. Peter wanted to improve his long-distance shooting skills and Terry volunteered to help him. Over a six-month period, Peter’s long-distance shooting skill improved to the point he could almost match Terry’s scores. Of course, Peter never told Terry both his father, mother, and grandfather were outstanding marksmen. Peter thought, Terry would have loved the story of my sniper father and mother at Stalingrad.

Peter felt he was now ready to pay back the KGB for killing his wife and infant daughter. He wanted revenge but also didn’t want to endanger Jack by increasing the resources the KGB was willing to invest to get him. He knew Yuri was beyond his reach, unless he ever got posted to the U.S. for a few years. But he could make a few KGB agents pay. Tomorrow he planned to head north for two or three weeks.

Terry agreed to move in for a few weeks to help the Nguyens and Rip look after Jack. Peter told the Nguyens he had some serious enemies. Their response had been for him to get them two 12-gauge pump-action shotguns and double aught ammunition.

When Peter gave them the shotguns, it only took a few seconds of watching them to know they were trained, experienced warriors. He had no worries leaving Jack with Rip there. Now that Jack had Rip and the swimming pool, he didn’t mind his father taking trips.

Peter and Jack arrived in Richmond very late at night. They checked into a motel and the next day Peter signed a month’s lease on a short-term rental in the Fan neighborhood of Richmond. Jack missed his mother terribly and cried saying, “Where mommy and Chrissy?” Peter tried hard to make up the loss by taking Jack with him everywhere he went.

Leaving the wagon in the attached garage, Peter and Jack walked out to a main street and hailed a cruising cab. Peter gave him the address of a Ford dealer. After the cab dropped them and left, Peter picked Jack up, crossed the busy street and went into a Cadillac dealership a block away. A sales man hurried up and asked if he could help them. Peter responded, “Yes. I’m looking for a new or late model Cadillac, probably a sedan.”

After looking at the new models with no sale, the salesman said, “We have a late model sedan with very low mileage. It has a few scratches and dents. Would you like to see it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the white one sitting over there. Would you like to drive it?”

“No. I assume you have some kind of a warranty?”

“Yes, we do. Just like a new one.”

After dickering over the price, Peter said, “Okay. Is it ready to go?”

“Yes, it was just prepped. How will you pay for it?”

“I assume you take cash.”

“Yes we do. But it is a bit unusual.”

“I’m going through a divorce and do not want to display all my accounts to blood sucking lawyers.”

“Ten thousand will pay the cost of the car. There will be a little more for taxes.”

“Draw up the sales agreement. We have a deal.”

Back at the rental, Peter transferred all the cargo in the wagon to the Cadillac. Then he and Jack went for a ride into one of the higher crime areas of Richmond. Peter left the keys in the unlocked wagon and he and Jack walked away. Peter had no doubt the wagon would be gone within the hour. He had broken the name chain. There was nothing that could link Brandon to Webb to Kincaid. After resting for a few days, the Brandons left for Florida.

Peter established the first Brandon bank account by depositing $8,000 into a bank that had branches throughout the South. He also rented a safety deposit box and paid three years in advance. He left a sack of diamonds, several ounces of gold, and $100,000 in currency, all in the Brandon name. It felt good. If only Marie and Christina could be here, he thought.

Jake was returning home when he saw the cars pulling out of his driveway. He kept going but as one car turned in his direction, he saw Yuri Kolenko, his old KGB friend from school, sitting in the passenger seat and concentrating on a hand-held radio. Jake saw one of the four cars turn around and pull over to park on the wide shoulder. He hoped Sally Ann and Christina were not home yet.

His first step was to get rid of the KGB officer left behind to watch the driveway. He glanced back at Jack in the backseat. “Jack, want to play a game? See how long you can keep your eyes shut with your hands over your ears. Ready, set, go!”

Jake pulled alongside the watcher’s car and motioned to him to roll down the window. With his ball cap and sunglasses the driver wouldn’t recognize him until it was too late. As the watcher started to roll the window down and reach for what Jake guessed must be a weapon, Jake shot him in the head three times. He whipped the car around and drove fast up the driveway and slid to a stop. Leaving Jack in the car, he ran through the house, calling for Sally Ann. He saw the bullet holes in the back door and broken windows.

Running outside, he saw the three dead men and Sally Ann’s bright red coat near the tree line. Racing up, he saw that she had been hit hard. She still had her 9mm in her hand. Pulling her up and holding her he saw that Christina had also been killed. Screaming and crying, he kissed them both.

“I’m so sorry Marie,” he cried. “All I wanted was for a normal life for all of us.” He held her close for another minute. “I have to leave you, I have to save Jack. I promise you both, I will save him and take good care of him. Your deaths will be avenged.” He kissed them both on the cheek and stood up. The wagon was already packed for an escape so he ran back to the car, kissed Jack with tears still streaming down his face, and sped down the driveway in reverse.

Jake used backcountry roads to get to Route 30 East. The road was open and he had to put miles and miles between him and the KGB in Latrobe. The wagon had a range of more than 300 miles on a single tank. He didn’t want to stop until they got to Richmond, Virginia. Jake planned to change cars and names in Richmond. Jake and Jack Webb would become Brandons, Peter and Jack. No more aliases.

April 24, 1975

 

Sally Ann was up feeding and bathing Christina at 6:30 AM. She put Christina back in her crib. She called Jake and said, “Christina and I are going out. You’re the babysitter. I need some things from the pharmacy and while I’m out I’ll pick up some groceries, anything you want?”

“Yes. Look for the good sausage brand we liked in St. Cloud.”

“Okay, I’ll try. Make Jack some scrambled eggs and jelly toast.”

“Drive carefully.”

“No one would dare put a scratch on my new car.”

Sally Ann felt at home in Latrobe. The people are nice. It is much smaller than Ottawa or even St. Cloud, but it has all I need and it is only a few hours to Pittsburgh. It was good to get out for a little private time and who wanted their husband trailing along in the cosmetic section, anyway? She knew Jake was still worried about their safety but she could feel herself relaxing more each day. Surely they could hide in a country as big as the United States.

She found a good parking spot just outside the entrance to the pharmacy she liked, picked up a drowsy Christina, and went through the automatic doors.

Yuri was in the cruising car with the driver. They had just entered the small cluster of shops for a quick drive through and then on to the next shopping area when he saw a black Cadillac Eldorado pull into a parking place practically in front of him. He told the driver to move on and park 20 yards away from the Cadillac. Yuri called the other teams he had and ordered them to join him, but to stay in their cars and be prepared to conduct a three-car surveillance of the Eldorado when it left. “I will direct all movements. Discreet is the word.”

Sally Ann came out of the pharmacy and made a quick look around the way Jake had taught her. There was nothing to be seen. She put Christina in her seat and started up the Eldorado for the mile drive to her favorite grocery store. She never noticed the skillful maneuvers of the three cars tracking her. When she left the grocery store pushing a cart with one hand and holding Christina with the other, the three KGB cars began their surveillance ballet. Again she saw nothing. When she turned into the farm driveway, they all kept going past with no pause.

Yuri left one car in position to watch the driveway while the other two cars moved a quarter-mile farther and pulled off on the shoulder. Yuri called the other car to join them and worked out an assault plan.

Sally Ann beeped the car horn to signal Jake they were home and to get some help carrying in the groceries. When she struggled in with Christina and one load, she saw a note on the kitchen counter.

 

“Took Jack to the Exxon station to fill up the wagon. Back in an hour or so. Lunch date for pizza?

Love, Jake”

 

How could you stay mad at a husband like that? Sally thought. Maybe this idea of arranged marriages has some good points. Neither one of us had any choice. I feel fulfilled and very lucky. Getting out from behind the iron curtain is much better than I ever believed. This is what life is about. Without individual freedom, there is no freedom or justice. I’m ashamed of how my parents live a life of privilege while supporting an oppressive regime.

She was cleaning up in the kitchen when she heard a car coming down the loose gravel driveway. Good, Jake and Jack are home. She ran her fingers through her hair while running to the front door. Instead of Jake’s wagon she saw three other cars coming quickly toward the house. The last car blocked the entrance to the driveway. She knew immediately they were KGB and ran to get her 9mm Browning and Christina. Snatching Christina from her crib, she raced to the back door.

Bursting out on the back porch, she surprised two men who were coming around the house. She shot twice at the nearest man and knocked him down. The second man couldn’t get a clear shot at her and was firing blind. Sally Ann stepped out and emptied her magazine of 11 more rounds at the second man, hitting him several times. Slamming another magazine into the butt of the 9mm, she began to think, We may get away if I can just get to the wood line 30 yards from the porch. She took off running hard to the tree line.

Sally Ann had been 200-meter sprinter in college and could still nearly outrun Jake. Another two men came around from the front of the house armed with assault rifles. Both dropped to one knee and began full automatic fire. Sally Ann was almost in the tree line when the first bullets hit her in the back and legs. She went down and rolled over on her stomach to protect Christina and return fire. Her vision was going but not before she hit another pursuer. Everything went black. She never knew Christina was going with her. Neither had escaped the hail of bullets.

Inside, Yuri and two men were searching the house for Kalin and the stolen money. Yuri quickly realized Kalin wasn’t here or else he would have been in the firefight. A quick search of the house and barn revealed nothing of interest to him. He took a picture of the white Ford pickup, then checked Sally Ann’s and Christina’s bodies. He confirmed their deaths and didn’t bother to search any further.

He had two dead men and one with a bad stomach wound. Without hesitating, he held the man’s hand and shot him twice in the head. They could not take care of any severely wounded and none of his men could be taken alive by the local police. He searched the dead for any identification they might have carried against protocol.

Yuri left the dead where they fell and all his team and cars were out of the driveway on the way back to their motel operations center. They had been on the Kalin property for six minutes. The farm was isolated enough that no one responded to the gunfire. Yuri assumed the local people were used to guns being fired for practice and for hunting.

Maybe we were lucky, Yuri thought. If Kalin had been there, we all might have been killed. As it was the woman carrying a baby killed three of my team, the last one after she was nearly dead. She died fighting and trying to protect her child. I’m through with trying to trap Kalin. I’ll leave one car and one person here to watch the driveway for Kalin. The police may come before he returns. No way we can hang around Latrobe any longer.

Route 30 East, April 1975

 

Two days of checking motels, fast food restaurants, and car dealers turned up nothing. It seemed the Kincaids had vanished. Yuri was getting some pressure from Moscow to move on, expand the search area west of Pittsburgh. He stuck to his operational instincts. Yuri had moved his operating base to a motel in Latrobe, Pa., and was actively participating in the search. He needed to make sure the search wasn’t so intensive and visible it could attract police attention or media coverage. Maybe if they didn’t soon find the trail, he would arrange to get a piece of news into the local papers that might flush Kalin from his rat hole.

On the morning of the third day, Yuri went into the Latrobe Cadillac dealership. When he asked the salesman if he recognized Kalin’s picture, the salesman said, “Sure. I sold him a late model Cadillac for cash. I see the car from time to time. He must still be in the area. Why? Can I interest you in a car?”

“Afraid not. Beyond my bank account. But I would like some information on the man in this picture. I’m a private detective working for a Pittsburgh law firm to find this man and get him to testify in a big civil suit against the company he worked for. If you can give me some identifying information, I’m authorized to pay a small fee. It will be at least $50.”

“I don’t know much about Mr. Webb. I can give you a good description of the car and a copy of the sales contract.”

“You just made $150.”

“Great. Give me a minute and I’ll make a copy of the sales agreement and the trade-in title.”

Ten minutes later Yuri was sitting in the back seat reading the contract. He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Pull into that parking lot and park.”

Though handwritten and faint, the name Kincaid was clearly on the copy of the car title.

Turning to the other KGB officer in the passenger seat, Yuri said, “Get on the radio and tell everyone to come back to the motel.”

When everyone was present, Yuri started by saying, “Kalin is here is this town. He is using the name Jake Webb.

“They are driving a black, late model Cadillac Eldorado with temporary plates. His wife could be driving, so look for the car. Never mind trying to get a picture. Don’t try to take them. Use very discreet surveillance tactics. Kalin is very good at detecting surveillance. Maybe he trained his wife. So be extra careful. Do not get too close. Switch cars often. Your task is only to find out where the Webbs are living. We need that information soon. Do not attract the attention of the local police. The plan is to stake out major crossroads, particularly monitor traffic going and coming on Route 30 west of Latrobe. One car will cruise the town. Break off the stakeouts at midnight and get some sleep. Back on the sites assigned at 7:00 AM. Switch cars and positions every four or five hours. Keep off the radios unless it is important. You have your assignments. Find this traitor.”

Pittsburgh, March 29, 1975

 

Yuri wasted no time in Pittsburgh. After checking into a hotel, he took a taxi to the scene of the four dead KGB officers and the Mellon Bank. The bank was open and he went inside to visualize how it all went down.

A skilled KGB officer like Kalin could have planned and pulled off the looting of the box and the killing of the four officers. In the scenario I believe is true, Kalin had no choice. Once the KGB watcher inside the bank was tipped off by the paid attendant, he would immediately hurry outside to alert the waiting team. Kalin had seen the parked car with the engine running and had to stop them from getting into action. He must have gained control of the watcher as soon as he left the bank and used him as cover approaching the car with the windows iced or steamed up. The men inside had no chance.

Kalin’s wife, carrying the baby and the loot from the box, would have been out of the bank by then. Kalin’s car, the station wagon, must have been nearby but out of sight from the bank or the parked KGB car. With weather conditions like they were, it would be useless to try to find anyone who had seen the car. I have to put myself inside my old friend’s head. Two kids, probably tired and hungry. Four dead men behind him, as yet undiscovered. He had to get out of the area. So far, everyone believes Kalin headed back to an area of the country he knew. They think he probably has a hiding place there ready for the Kalin family.

But they do not know him. Kalin has one of the best operational minds I have ever come across. He would know how his hunters thought and do just the opposite. He would have gone east to lose himself in the vast populated areas of America’s east coast. New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Washington, D.C., Richmond, or Miami. He also needed to change cars and aliases again.

There is also another bank with a safety deposit box full of KGB funds in Washington, D.C., but I believe Kalin is done with the banks. He has enough and knows the risk to hit another bank could not be justified. So his main concern now is hiding and breaking whatever chain of clues he believes he left behind. He wouldn’t have traveled more than two or three hours after leaving the bank before changing cars and aliases. They would also need a rest. I’m glad he has two very young kids and a wife with him. Without those burdens we would never catch him. The family gives us a chance.

I’m sure he stopped and changed cars and aliases within three hours east of this bank. If he thought it was safe or necessary, he may still be hiding out in the same area. Tomorrow I’ll assign my teams to go east 35 miles and start showing the pictures at car sales lots, motels, fast food restaurants right along the highway. I’m gambling that he will avoid the turnpike. Too easy to check traffic and limited exits. He would have chosen Route 30 East. There are thousands of places to leave the highway and travel in any direction. Tomorrow or the next day we will find his trail.

Minneapolis, late-March, 1975

 

After 16 days of intensive street work visiting 60 places selling cars and 43 covered parking garages, one of Yuri’s team members finally found a lead. After three visits to a large dealership on the south edge of the city, a part-time salesman recognized Kalin’s picture and remembered selling him a year-old station wagon. He remembered because it was the first cash sale of a nearly new car he had ever made. It wasn’t uncommon but it was his first.

The salesman said, “No, there was no trade-in. Are you cops? Because if you aren’t, I’m not telling you anymore.”

“No, we are not cops but we need to find this man and are willing to pay a $50 fee for any information.”

The salesman said, “We are finished here,” and walked into the show room.

Yuri’s team set up to watch for the salesman leaving after work so they could follow him home, but missed him in the traffic coming and going into the dealership.

At the meeting with Yuri that night, he wasn’t pleased they failed to find out where the salesman lived or his name. Yuri split the team to make two teams each with a member who could identify the salesman going or coming from the Ford dealership.

Yuri told them not to come back without the information and to do whatever it took. After three days of watching, a team saw the salesman leaving the car lot. They followed him to a diner and, when he came out alone, grabbed him just as he was getting in his car. The salesman, whose name was Gary Hoyle, recognized one of the team and said, “I told you I wasn’t going to give you any more information.”

“Look, we’re private detectives who are being paid to find a guy who ran out on his pregnant wife and two little kids. Her dad has retained us to find and serve him. We are authorized to pay you $500 for information about the false name he is now using and the VIN and description of the station wagon. Also we will not make trouble for your dealership selling a car for cash to a person using a false name and fictitious address. The court case over that could take months. Please cooperate. No one, including us, needs that kind of aggravation.”

“Let me see your licenses.”

“Okay,” and one of the team handed both licenses to him.

“Looks good to me. But I don’t have the file with me. I’ll have to get a copy of the sales contract.”

“Can you remember the name?”

“Only the last name and that was Kincaid.”

“Here’s $250. Bring the contract here tomorrow and we’ll give you the rest of the money.”

“Okay. See you here tomorrow at noon. Can I go now?”

“Yes and thank you. You have done a good thing.”

When they reported to Yuri, he left one team member to meet again with the salesman, while he and the other three went directly to Pittsburgh on separate flights.