Iron Dogs and Caesar's Ruby Read online



  IRON DOGS

  &

  CAESAR’S RUBY

  DAVE R. MORTENSEN

  This is a work of fiction that contains various references to actual events and some genuine historical figures as well as locales. In some cases those events are portrayed in non-historically accurate ways. The names of fictional characters, places and the incidents described are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to businesses or establishments, government entities, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Iron Dogs & Caesar’s Ruby

  Copyright, 2013, by Dave R. Mortensen.

  To Ollie and Nancy, Ray and Bonnie and Tex and Mazie

 

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  If you are old enough, try to remember what things were like in the late ‘90s.

  I originally started writing this in 1997 and was about three-fourths of the way through in 1998 when I had a computer hard-drive failure. After more than ten years passed I came across an outline I had printed out and filed away and decided to restart from memory.

  For me, as well as the modern-day characters in this novel set in 1997, Y2K was just becoming part of the news vernacular; gas was about $1.25; the ‘world-wide-web’ was rapidly emerging but most users were dialing into it and Google was still just an idea; Bill Clinton was in his second term; Pathfinder landed on Mars; the movie Titanic was released; Princess Diana was killed in a car accident; John Denver, Jimmy Stewart and Jacques Cousteau died; IBM’s “Deep Blue” computer defeated Gary Kasparov and in a little over a year of playing professionally, at the age of 21, Tiger Woods won the Masters and became the number-one ranked professional golfer in the world.

  None of those things have anything to do with the story but there are some things in 1997 that do; the U.S. tour of the Russian’s “Jewels of the Romanovs” exhibit being the most significant, including a stop in Houston, Texas.

  Now try to put yourself in the place of the citizens of the USSR in the ‘40s and imagine what it was like for the people living under Joseph Stalin. Then consider the misery of a brutal war in which over seven million citizens and soldiers died. In the “Great Patriotic War” against the Nazis, nearly twice that number were injured or wounded or debilitated by famine and disease.

  In that era, large parts of the Soviet population became little more than slaves to the regime. Ethnic cleansing was an almost routine practice but instead of concentration camps and gas chambers, people were sent to work and die laboring in the gulags in the vastness of the Soviet Union.

  Against that backdrop, consider the lengths Joseph Stalin was willing to go to in order to defeat the Nazi’s, remain in power and spread his view of communist dogma; there were no limits. Megalomaniac, paranoid, sociopathic, ruthless – those are just a few of the terms that are still used to describe him, but for me, the most apt description of all is cunning.

  Make no mistake, Stalin is not the central figure of this novel – instead, something he might have done that would have enormous consequences for an American family some fifty years later is the catalyst.

  And attention, WWII aviation history buffs: I know, some of the dates of some fictional events might not seem authentic – but some are. Try to enjoy the story without looking up something on Google every few hours!

  On the other hand, for those who aren’t familiar with the world of the ‘40s, by all means, have your browser and mouse ready; the history involved is as fascinating as it is troubling.

  Dave R. Mortensen

  IRON DOGS & CAESAR’S RUBY

  CHAPTER LINKS

  Prologue.– Montgomery County, Texas, February, 1997

  Chapter 1.– Leningrad, USSR, Winter, 1942

  Chapter 2.– The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Texas, Wednesday, May 21, 1997

  Chapter 3.– Houston, Texas, Wednesday Night, May 21, 1997

  Chapter 4.– Moscow, USSR, January, 1942

  Chapter 5.– Houston, Texas, 12:30 a.m., Thursday, May 22, 1997

  Chapter 6.– The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

  Chapter 7.– Leningrad, USSR, September, 1942

  Chapter 8.– Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

  Chapter 9.– USSR, September, 1942

  Chapter 10.– Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

  Chapter 11.– Southern Ural Mountains, USSR, September, 1942

  Chapter 12.– Near Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

  Chapter 13.– Chkalov, USSR, October, 1942

  Chapter 14.– Calder Ranch, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

  Chapter 15.– The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR, 1946

  Chapter 16.– Calder Ranch and Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

  Chapter 17.– Arlington Heights, Virginia, Thursday, May 22, 1997

  Chapter 18.– Berlin, Germany, Soviet Sector and Moscow, USSR, October, 1946

  Chapter 19.– Berlin, Germany, Soviet Sector, October, 1946

  Chapter 20.– Calder Ranch, Texas, Friday, May 23, 1997

  Chapter 21.– Houston, Texas, Friday, May 23, 1997

  Chapter 22.– The Hill Country of Texas, Friday and Saturday, May 23 and 24, 1997

  Chapter 23.– Calder Ranch, Texas, Saturday, May 24, 1997

  Chapter 24.– Berlin, Soviet Sector and the USSR, November and December, 1946

  Chapter 25.– Calder Ranch, Texas, Memorial Day Weekend, 1997

  Chapter 26.– Berlin, Soviet Sector & the USSR, January, 1947

  Chapter 27.– Texas, Tuesday, May 27, 1997

  Chapter 28.– The U.S. and U.K., Thursday, May 29, 1997

  Chapter 29. – Cambridgeshire, U.K. and Houston, Texas, Saturday, May 31, 1997

  Chapter 30. – Houston, Texas, Sunday, June 1 through Tuesday, June 3, 1997

  Chapter 31. – Long Island, New York, 0230, Wednesday, June 4, 1997

  Chapter 32. – Houston, Texas, Wednesday, June 4, 1997

  Chapter 33. – Long Island, New York, Wednesday, June 4, 1997

  Chapter 34. – U.K., Thursday Morning, June 5, 1997

  Chapter 35. – The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR, January, 1956

  Chapter 36. – Cambridgeshire, U.K. and Calais France, Thursday afternoon, June 5, 1997

  Chapter 37. – Cambridgeshire, U.K., Thursday evening, June 5, 1997

  Chapter 38. – Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Thursday evening, June 5, 1997

  Chapter 39. – Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Late Thursday night, June 5, 1997

  Chapter 40. – Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Friday, June 6, 1997

  Chapter 41. – Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Saturday evening, June 7, 1997

  Chapter 42. – Houston, Texas, Friday, October 24, 1997

  Chapter 43. – Kirkland Estate, Cove Neck, Long Island, New York, November 19, 1997

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  Montgomery County, Texas, February, 1997

  Knowing well the route to the address for her next delivery, the FedEx driver was careful not to exceed the speed limit on the farm-to-market road carving its way across the sprawling and irregular patchwork quilt of ranches and farms. On this undulating, two-lane ribbon of asphalt many miles northwest of Houston, an inattentive driver could suddenly come upon almost anything from a semi hauling cattle to gaggles of wildly-colorful bicyclists to a pair of riders loping along on horseback. Worse yet were the tractors or even larger farm implements; in many places the dirt and gravel on the shoulders could be loose enough to ruin your whole day if you had to suddenly swerve around something wider than a highway-lane rumbling along at less than ten miles per hour.

  Today was
like most of the delivery trips she made to the Calder ranch with one exception – the single, small box was addressed to the owner’s recently widowed mother.

  The familiar, gradual turn straightened and she coasted then turned left onto the private road, stopping a few yards from the gate at a stone pedestal. Leaning out of the open door she lifted a phone handset from a covered intercom box and when a voice came on the line she smiled and waved in the direction of a camera embedded in one of the gate pillars. “This one’s for you Mrs. C.,” she responded into the handset. Before she hung up the phone, the heavy steel-barred gate began rolling away to the side on its track.

  Little more than a half mile beyond the gates she turned left onto a gradually sloping concrete driveway that veered off toward the home of Cecil and Margaret Calder. Even before she pulled the truck to a stop at the apex of the large loop in front of the porch she saw the woman waiting at the top of the steps. “Hi, Mrs. C.,” she called out with a bright smile. She shut off the engine and soon stepped out of the truck with the small box and her clipboard. “Looks like y’all are the important one today.”

  At seventy-six, with greenish eyes and long, gray-white hair tied back in her usual thick pony-tail, the diminutive woman known to almost everyone as ‘Mrs. C.’ was a little surprised. She couldn’t recall the last time she was the sole recipient instead of acting as the signatory for the packages that sometimes arrived at the ranch when her son and his wife were away from their nearby home.

  “Hi Deedee,” she said warmly with a ring of true Texas drawl to her voice. “Now, don’t tell me they had y’all drive all the way the hell out here for that little thing?”

  “Oh no, Ma’am ... I’ve got a few stops out this way,” the young woman said as she climbed up the low steps of the expansive covered porch. “Fact is, weather like this I don’t mind a bit.” Handing over the clipboard and pen she commented on how ruthless Mother Nature had been with the south Texas gulf recently. “Maybe we’ll get dried out this week ... coupl’a weeks back we even had trucks stuck in town in water up to the headlights.” She looked at the box label and her thin eyebrows knitted in puzzlement. “This one’s come a ways.”

  Margaret Calder examined the printed form on the clipboard more closely. “Will you look at that ... Colchester, England?”

  “Where’s that?”

  The older woman thought for just a moment then signed on the line and shook her head. “I don’t know ... but I guess I’m gonna find out,” she said pleasantly as she traded the clipboard and pen for the package. “Thanks, Deedee,” she added with a natural, automatic smile.

  The driver turned and trotted down the stairs then as she rounded the corner of the truck she called back with a friendly tease, “Must be a secret admirer!”

  “Y’all drive careful now!” Margaret admonished loudly as the noisy engine started. Instead of waiting on the porch to exchange another wave as the truck rounded the loop she was already opening her front door.

  “What on earth?” she asked quietly as she swung the door closed then went directly through the living room down a hall past the dining area and into the kitchen. Retrieving a pair of scissors from a drawer, she stood at the rectangular table and began attempting to open the heavily-taped cardboard box. After nearly jabbing herself with the scissors she cursed whoever thought it necessary to over-use seemingly impenetrable tape for such a lightweight package.

  More-or-less ripping the top flap of the box open caused a handful of foam packing shells to scatter out onto the table and the floor. “Damn these things,” she muttered as she dug a few more out of the box and raked them into a pile.

  The first thing she found inside was a folded page of typewriter paper embedded in the contents. Scanning it confused her thoroughly. This isn’t right, she told herself then read the odd page in more detail.

  “What is this ... e-b-a-y?” she asked, spelling it aloud then read another part: “Congratulations! You’re the winning bidder.”

  Bidder?

  She suddenly remembered her deceased husband talking about computer auctions but she also recalled he refused to use eBay, preferring to stick with the classified ads in a handful of major newspapers where coin collectors dealt with people they knew and could trust. ‘On that computer thing, you don’t really know who you’re buying from or selling to’, he had warned emphatically.

  “Somebody’s sure as hell confused,” she announced firmly then saw something on the page about categories and noticed the words jewelry and costume, then focused on the paragraph labeled ‘Item description’:

  Very unusual large ruby colored stone (paste?) pendant with painted leaf and brass wire twig decorations. I don’t know the age but it has been in my collection for over 10 years.

  She looked at the black-and-white image of the item she had allegedly bid on and admitted to herself that she had never seen anything like it. Now very curious, she fished around in the package and found a smaller cardboard box wedged among the packing near the bottom. This one was made of a thinner but more rigid material with a dappled dark-green surface and had a lid held in place by old and fraying silk ribbons tied in a bow.

  The thought of opening something that might not belong to her was troubling; the fact that the name of the sender, ‘Camilla Farnsworth’ and the town in England were complete unknowns only added to her apprehension. She finally decided it really couldn’t do any harm to look at it before she went to the trouble of having it sent back to the apparently mistaken or simply careless ‘Camilla’.

  After undoing the bow and removing the lid she carefully pushed aside the aging and crisp excelsior packing, revealing a small, dark-gray velvet drawstring bag. She studied it as she pulled it up from the clingy packing and realized whatever was in it was fairly heavy for its size. Now even more intrigued, she untied the strings without bothering to pick off the bits and pieces of wood shavings. After pulling the mouth of the bag open she reached in and fished the irregular item from it.

  Somewhat smaller than a hen’s egg, it was unlike anything she had ever seen and she sensed it was quite old. The stone itself was like a giant unevenly-formed reddish-purple blackberry and had not only dark leaf decorations at the top but what looked like tiny, gold-colored curling sprouts attached in places.

  “Oh, my,” she said in an admiring whisper. “What do we have here?”

  She was no expert in jewelry; her small collection of valuable pieces rarely left its rosewood cabinet in her bedroom. Rather than gifts of jewelry over the years, her late husband had been more likely to come up with a rare addition for her Lladro collection or something eminently more practical like a saddle, a firearm or a gift to some charity in her name.

  The more she looked at the beautiful object the more she began to worry that it might be something of real value and concluded this had to be some terrible mistake – probably a technologically-based one.

  “Well, you know Camilla, I don’t know what it’s really worth ... but I guess we’re going to have to find out how to get this back to y’all,” she said as she prepared to put it back in its box. Only then did she notice the small envelope on the inside of the lid; reading the name written on it in a compact but elegant cursive hand nearly stopped her heart.

  Now trembling with a combination of apprehension and excitement, she sat down and managed to remove and open the envelope without tearing it apart. The simple, handwritten, unsigned note had been folded to fit and she held her breath while she read it:

  I wanted you to know that you and Cecil will always be in my heart.

  I am deeply saddened and truly sorry this has taken so many years to find you.

  “Alexsandr,” she gasped in a whisper as tears began to well up. “My God ... you’re still alive!”

  CHAPTER 1

  Leningrad, USSR, Winter, 1942

  At the surprisingly advanced age of sixty-three, Sergei Molenkov was among the oldest of the unlucky remaining survivors of blokada Leningrada, the on-going
siege of Leningrad. As one of the starving but still somewhat useful workers, he had yet to be scraped together into the almost suicidal defense forces resisting German Feldmarshal von Leeb’s Army Group North in the regions around the city.

  During the seemingly endless months of the horrifying siege, hundreds of thousands of Leningrad’s citizens that hadn’t been evacuated died of starvation or succumbed to the cold or disease; tens of thousands were killed in the bombing and shelling; thousands had been executed for “crimes” such as stealing a ration card or carrying a leaflet the Nazis had dropped from the air suggesting the survivors turn on their Stalinist leaders and surrender.

  On a stool hunched over his workbench where he fitted parts into and adjusted trigger assemblies, Molenkov looked up when his eye caught his supervisor walking briskly in his direction through the aisles of similar workers. His stomach knotted when he saw the man was accompanied by a Commissar Officer.

  “Comrade Molenkov,” the supervisor said loudly over the shop noise as the two men approached.

  Molenkov set the assembly he had been working on down and wiped his hands on a rag then turned and rose from his stool, steadying himself with a hand on the workbench.

  The officious younger man in a surprisingly unspoiled uniform stepped in front of the moribund supervisor and stated flatly, “Comrade Sergei Molenkov.”

  When Molenkov did not respond the man eyed him coolly and didn’t hide the frustration in his voice. “You are Sergei Molenkov, yes?”

  The old man nodded then looked with some trepidation to his supervisor, who scowled and said, “This is Molenkov.”

  The officer sighed impatiently then leaned in and ordered, “Come with me, Comrade.”

  Molenkov was now more than just wary and confused; being taken away from work could only mean bad things and he wracked his brain to think of what minor infraction on his part might have been discovered. Did someone turn me in for something? he asked himself as he recalled the myriad of typical secret acts of daily survival, any number of which could have been construed as illegal.