Moscow, 1956.
The small man walked from the trolly car stop to the entrance of his building, and nobody noticed him. He was the kind of man that nobody really took any note of, that drifted through life as part of the backdrop of life. One of the many cogs in a huge government machine that went on everyday. Today, Pavel Luckowski went into his building as he did everyday. The guards glanced at his badge and he walked through as he did every morning. Pavel Luckowski was a known employee that had been passing through those doors for ten years now. His fellow workers knew him well, and respected him for his steady climb up the ladder, and for what they knew of his war record. Pavel was a hero of the Motherland, and was recognized every anniversary of the great victory over the Germans, and the recognition of the Russian Partisans that had fought so bitterly in the war. Pavel was a hero of the partisans, having fought with Pappa Sasha's band in some of the most bitter and dirty fighting around Kiev. With his family all dead, his village totally destroyed, Pavel had come to Moscow for a new life. There he had joined the security service, and through diligent work had made his way up the ladder in the KGB. Mostly an office worker, he had access to files that needed a high level of clearance to see. But his zeal had worked to get him noticed by the right people. Now he was in charge of an office, and many kinds of things passed his desk. The little man in the gray slightly rumpled suit was a valued worker in the depths of the KGB.
The only problem was, Pavel Luckowski didn't exist.
He appeared one day in 1943, clad in a ragged overcoat holding a German MP-40 that he had taken from a dead soldier. He told the partisans that he had come from a village that had been totally destroyed, and as there were a million displaced Russians fleeing east away from the Germans, they had no reason to disbelieve him. He joined up with Pappa Sasha and fought against the German invaders with a ferocity that earned him the nickname "The Mink" after the small deadly predator of the forrest. He killed without mercy, and was an effective sentry remover. Although a good shot, his real talent was the knife. He carried a slim bladed knife in a sheath under his coat, as well as a stag handle pocket knife, and was adept at crawling through the snow without a sound. The next morning, the German's would find the sentries with their throats cut. Even Pappa Sasha heaped praise on him. After the war, he moved to Moscow, saying how he could never return to the devastated ground where his village once stood. He went to work as a file clerk, and moved up from there. His unique background worked for him, and slowly he gained the trust of his superiors.
Not a bad piece of work for an American intelligence agent named Paul Kruckowski from a Russian coal mining town in eastern Pennsylvania.
He'd been dropped in by parachute, to do just what he'd done. Infiltrate and remain in place until needed. Coming from a Russian immigrant family, he spoke perfect Russian down to the regional accent from the area he was supposed to be from. Since his family and friends in the mountain community in Pennsylvania all spoke Russian to each other, this was natural. Paul was as patriotic American as ever was, and when asked by his superiors in Army intelligence to dedicate himself to this job, he did not hesitate. Now, something had come across his desk that was important enough to abandon his post. Something that could turn the cold war hot. The Mink had to return home with what he'd found.
That afternoon he carefully looked over each page in the file. His true gift, that of a real photographic memory was put to use. Every bit of the information in the file was committed to his memory. He left work that afternoon for the last time, carrying in his head what he desperately needed to get home. He packed no bag to conspicuously carry, and carried only what he needed in his pockets when he got on the train. For the next few days Paul ran on sheer well calculated bluff. At checkpoints, he simply flashed his security clearance from the KGD head quarters and told them he was on state business. Only once, he was doubted, and he stepped closer to the security man.
"Do you wish to interfere with my mission, Kamrade?" the Mink asked in a low tone. The security man looked into the gray eyes that had been mild just a moment before, now had turned hard and cold as the ice of a Russian winter. The security guard felt a cold bead of sweat run down his back.
"No, no kamrade. Please, do not misunderstand. I was only trying to do my duty to the best of my ability. I beg your forgiveness, kamrade." the man pleaded, not wanting any enemy that worked in the KGB..
The Mink smiled kindly, and then patted the frightened guard on the shoulder.
"And you're doing it well, and you are supposed to ask questions. Good man, you should get some recognition for your service to the motherland. Make no mention of my passing this way to nobody. "
The guard relaxed and smiled at the sudden praise from what he thought a KGB man on a mission. The Mink walked off, leaving the guard feeling proud of his job. But now he knew he had to stay off the map. He took to the small paths and trails through the woods, from small town to town. Staying at rented rooms at taverns and isolated Dasha's in the country, and riding only the local trains and busses. Sometimes he made a shelter for the night in the woods. He had his stag handled pocket knife and a lighter, and his long overcoat was a heavy wool one that covered him while he slept on a bed of pine boughs that he cut with his pocket knife. From his years with the partisans, he knew how to live in the forest. At a small store he bought extra clothing to layer up, and some cheese and hard dry sausage that went in a small shopping sack. Day by day, he made his way through the forested countryside, but near the Finish border his luck ran out. A guard post with two soldiers barred his way. The questions were fast and hard, and one soldier was suspicious. The Mink knew he had to act. He had walked up to the guard post ready for trouble, in his low key way. He held a small apple in his left hand, and with his modest size stag handled pocket knife was cutting thin slices from it to eat.
"This identification card is just a building access. Something is wrong here. Give me your travel permit now." the one senior guard told him.
The mink, still holding the apple in his left hand, tried to shift it to his right hand that was also holding the small pocket knife, making like he was reaching for additional papers with his left hand. The apple slipped out of his hand and fell right on the polished boot of his inquisitor. The guard looked down at he smear on his boot, and the Mink moved. His right hand darted up with the knife under the guards chin, and the fine point slid right into the throat. The Mink slashed sideways with the short blade, and the guards scream came out only as a gurgling raspy sound as he fell grasping his slashed throat. The second guard was clawing for his pistol, but the Mink kicked him hard up between the legs, and the guard screamed in the agony that doubled him over. The Mink, still holding the small knife, grabbed the guards hand that was still clawing for the pistol with his left hand, and slashed the side of the man's neck with the pocket knife in his right. It was over as both guards were on the ground with cut throats.
The Mink carefully wiped off his knife on the guards uniform coat, and dragged the bodies off into the woods after slipping the Makarov into his own coat pocket. Sitting by the guard shack was a Ural motorcycle and sidecar. Without hesitating, the Mink kicked the Ural into life and drove off toward the Finish border. He knew the jig was up now, and speed was of the essence. He rode with breakneck speed down the rutted forest road, and before long, down a long strait stretch of road, was the Finish border. Russian guards stood watching him approach, and there was suspicion on their faces. The Mink slowed and looked past them, across the no man's land to where the Finish guards stood at their own checkpoint.
"Where did you get that motorcycle?" a Russian officer demanded, "Get off and put your hands up!"
The Mink stopped just short of them and slowly reached into his coat pocket with his left hand and tossed them the KGB clearance identification, and the while the officer looked at it, the Mink pulled the Makarov and shot both the guards. The gunshots roused the Finnish guards on the other side, who pointed their own rifles at the Mink as he walked quickly towards them with his hands up.
"I'm an American agent, and I need to get to the U.S. council in Helsinki!" he told them.
With the Finn's rifles covering him, he dared not move. A tall blond haired officer walked up to him, while looking over at the two dead Russian guards on the ground. More Russian guards were pouring out of a nearby barracks building, and a crisis was building fast. With a few fast commands, the Mink was hustled into a covered truck and driven away. Bouncing down the road, he looked at the tall Finnish Officer.
"What made you take my side of it so quick?" he asked.
The Finnish officer laughed.
"Well," the Finn said, "You left some dead Russians on the ground, so we must have the same enemy's. We have no love of the Soviets after two wars with them. My own father was killed by them in the winter war of 1940. If you're going around killing Russians, then you can't be that bad."
The Mink, the man known as Pavel Luckowski, found himself a few days later in a small office, sitting under guard waiting to talk to somebody who could clear things up. The door opened and a man walked in. The face was familiar, but older than he remembered.
"Hello, Paul."
Paul Kruckowski closed his eyes to try to blink back the tears from pent up emotions.
"It seems like a hundred years since anyone called me by my name." he said to his former boss.
It was cleared up quickly, and Paul was given his effects back. He was particular about the stag handle knife.
Many days later, in Washington D.C., he was again sitting in a small office, his superiors giving him many congratulations of a job well done, his old boss, now a section chief, told him he only needed to ask anything of him. Paul though for a second.
"The only thing I wish, is that I could see my father again, it's been so long. My mother passed away when I was a kid and it was just him and me for years. And maybe go to a ball game. They don't play baseball in Russia. God, I've thought about a ball game and a hot dog with my pop."
His boss picked up a phone and asked someone "Is he here yet?"
Satisfied, he hung up and a moment later the the door opened and an older man was shown in. He was a short compact built man, with steel gray hair and blue eyes and had a definite family resemblence to Paul. Paul jumped up from his chair.
"POP!"
The two men embraced in the middle of the room. The old Russian coal miner from Pennsylvania took his son's face in his hands and looked him over carefully.
"They told me you were dead, but I never believe them. Nyet. I always know you will come back someday. We had a deal, da?"
"Sure pop, we had a deal. You know I'd never let you down." Paul said wiping the tears off his cheeks with the back of his hand. He reached into his pocket and took out the old stag handle pocketknife and handed it to the old man. His father looked it over carefully, and saw that it was in good shape, put it in his pants pocket. He looked at the man who was his son's boss.
"When my boy, when he leaves for the war, we make a deal. I loaned him my knife, and he has to live to return it to me. He has to come back, Da? When they tell me he is dead, I do not believe. He has not come back to give me the knife back. So, I wait. No matter how long, I wait for my boy to come home and give my knife back to me, yes?"
The old man had to wipe tears from his own eyes as he told the story of the loan in his heavily accented English. He looked at his long lost son.
"In the morning, we will go home. But today, we go to the stadium, where the Senators play. We have ball game to see and hot dogs to eat. Da?"
Paul looked at his father.
"Sure pop. We'll watch the Senators, and go home. But do me one big favor huh?"
"What favor you want? Anything I can do."
"No more Russian for a while, Pop. I've kind of had a belly full of it for a while." Paul said.
The old man nodded. The father and son walked out of the office, and as they were leaving, Paul's boss called out,
"Hey, aren't you interested in who the Senators are playing?"
"It doesn't matter." was all Paul had to say.
The small man walked from the trolly car stop to the entrance of his building, and nobody noticed him. He was the kind of man that nobody really took any note of, that drifted through life as part of the backdrop of life. One of the many cogs in a huge government machine that went on everyday. Today, Pavel Luckowski went into his building as he did everyday. The guards glanced at his badge and he walked through as he did every morning. Pavel Luckowski was a known employee that had been passing through those doors for ten years now. His fellow workers knew him well, and respected him for his steady climb up the ladder, and for what they knew of his war record. Pavel was a hero of the Motherland, and was recognized every anniversary of the great victory over the Germans, and the recognition of the Russian Partisans that had fought so bitterly in the war. Pavel was a hero of the partisans, having fought with Pappa Sasha's band in some of the most bitter and dirty fighting around Kiev. With his family all dead, his village totally destroyed, Pavel had come to Moscow for a new life. There he had joined the security service, and through diligent work had made his way up the ladder in the KGB. Mostly an office worker, he had access to files that needed a high level of clearance to see. But his zeal had worked to get him noticed by the right people. Now he was in charge of an office, and many kinds of things passed his desk. The little man in the gray slightly rumpled suit was a valued worker in the depths of the KGB.
The only problem was, Pavel Luckowski didn't exist.
He appeared one day in 1943, clad in a ragged overcoat holding a German MP-40 that he had taken from a dead soldier. He told the partisans that he had come from a village that had been totally destroyed, and as there were a million displaced Russians fleeing east away from the Germans, they had no reason to disbelieve him. He joined up with Pappa Sasha and fought against the German invaders with a ferocity that earned him the nickname "The Mink" after the small deadly predator of the forrest. He killed without mercy, and was an effective sentry remover. Although a good shot, his real talent was the knife. He carried a slim bladed knife in a sheath under his coat, as well as a stag handle pocket knife, and was adept at crawling through the snow without a sound. The next morning, the German's would find the sentries with their throats cut. Even Pappa Sasha heaped praise on him. After the war, he moved to Moscow, saying how he could never return to the devastated ground where his village once stood. He went to work as a file clerk, and moved up from there. His unique background worked for him, and slowly he gained the trust of his superiors.
Not a bad piece of work for an American intelligence agent named Paul Kruckowski from a Russian coal mining town in eastern Pennsylvania.
He'd been dropped in by parachute, to do just what he'd done. Infiltrate and remain in place until needed. Coming from a Russian immigrant family, he spoke perfect Russian down to the regional accent from the area he was supposed to be from. Since his family and friends in the mountain community in Pennsylvania all spoke Russian to each other, this was natural. Paul was as patriotic American as ever was, and when asked by his superiors in Army intelligence to dedicate himself to this job, he did not hesitate. Now, something had come across his desk that was important enough to abandon his post. Something that could turn the cold war hot. The Mink had to return home with what he'd found.
That afternoon he carefully looked over each page in the file. His true gift, that of a real photographic memory was put to use. Every bit of the information in the file was committed to his memory. He left work that afternoon for the last time, carrying in his head what he desperately needed to get home. He packed no bag to conspicuously carry, and carried only what he needed in his pockets when he got on the train. For the next few days Paul ran on sheer well calculated bluff. At checkpoints, he simply flashed his security clearance from the KGD head quarters and told them he was on state business. Only once, he was doubted, and he stepped closer to the security man.
"Do you wish to interfere with my mission, Kamrade?" the Mink asked in a low tone. The security man looked into the gray eyes that had been mild just a moment before, now had turned hard and cold as the ice of a Russian winter. The security guard felt a cold bead of sweat run down his back.
"No, no kamrade. Please, do not misunderstand. I was only trying to do my duty to the best of my ability. I beg your forgiveness, kamrade." the man pleaded, not wanting any enemy that worked in the KGB..
The Mink smiled kindly, and then patted the frightened guard on the shoulder.
"And you're doing it well, and you are supposed to ask questions. Good man, you should get some recognition for your service to the motherland. Make no mention of my passing this way to nobody. "
The guard relaxed and smiled at the sudden praise from what he thought a KGB man on a mission. The Mink walked off, leaving the guard feeling proud of his job. But now he knew he had to stay off the map. He took to the small paths and trails through the woods, from small town to town. Staying at rented rooms at taverns and isolated Dasha's in the country, and riding only the local trains and busses. Sometimes he made a shelter for the night in the woods. He had his stag handled pocket knife and a lighter, and his long overcoat was a heavy wool one that covered him while he slept on a bed of pine boughs that he cut with his pocket knife. From his years with the partisans, he knew how to live in the forest. At a small store he bought extra clothing to layer up, and some cheese and hard dry sausage that went in a small shopping sack. Day by day, he made his way through the forested countryside, but near the Finish border his luck ran out. A guard post with two soldiers barred his way. The questions were fast and hard, and one soldier was suspicious. The Mink knew he had to act. He had walked up to the guard post ready for trouble, in his low key way. He held a small apple in his left hand, and with his modest size stag handled pocket knife was cutting thin slices from it to eat.
"This identification card is just a building access. Something is wrong here. Give me your travel permit now." the one senior guard told him.
The mink, still holding the apple in his left hand, tried to shift it to his right hand that was also holding the small pocket knife, making like he was reaching for additional papers with his left hand. The apple slipped out of his hand and fell right on the polished boot of his inquisitor. The guard looked down at he smear on his boot, and the Mink moved. His right hand darted up with the knife under the guards chin, and the fine point slid right into the throat. The Mink slashed sideways with the short blade, and the guards scream came out only as a gurgling raspy sound as he fell grasping his slashed throat. The second guard was clawing for his pistol, but the Mink kicked him hard up between the legs, and the guard screamed in the agony that doubled him over. The Mink, still holding the small knife, grabbed the guards hand that was still clawing for the pistol with his left hand, and slashed the side of the man's neck with the pocket knife in his right. It was over as both guards were on the ground with cut throats.
The Mink carefully wiped off his knife on the guards uniform coat, and dragged the bodies off into the woods after slipping the Makarov into his own coat pocket. Sitting by the guard shack was a Ural motorcycle and sidecar. Without hesitating, the Mink kicked the Ural into life and drove off toward the Finish border. He knew the jig was up now, and speed was of the essence. He rode with breakneck speed down the rutted forest road, and before long, down a long strait stretch of road, was the Finish border. Russian guards stood watching him approach, and there was suspicion on their faces. The Mink slowed and looked past them, across the no man's land to where the Finish guards stood at their own checkpoint.
"Where did you get that motorcycle?" a Russian officer demanded, "Get off and put your hands up!"
The Mink stopped just short of them and slowly reached into his coat pocket with his left hand and tossed them the KGB clearance identification, and the while the officer looked at it, the Mink pulled the Makarov and shot both the guards. The gunshots roused the Finnish guards on the other side, who pointed their own rifles at the Mink as he walked quickly towards them with his hands up.
"I'm an American agent, and I need to get to the U.S. council in Helsinki!" he told them.
With the Finn's rifles covering him, he dared not move. A tall blond haired officer walked up to him, while looking over at the two dead Russian guards on the ground. More Russian guards were pouring out of a nearby barracks building, and a crisis was building fast. With a few fast commands, the Mink was hustled into a covered truck and driven away. Bouncing down the road, he looked at the tall Finnish Officer.
"What made you take my side of it so quick?" he asked.
The Finnish officer laughed.
"Well," the Finn said, "You left some dead Russians on the ground, so we must have the same enemy's. We have no love of the Soviets after two wars with them. My own father was killed by them in the winter war of 1940. If you're going around killing Russians, then you can't be that bad."
The Mink, the man known as Pavel Luckowski, found himself a few days later in a small office, sitting under guard waiting to talk to somebody who could clear things up. The door opened and a man walked in. The face was familiar, but older than he remembered.
"Hello, Paul."
Paul Kruckowski closed his eyes to try to blink back the tears from pent up emotions.
"It seems like a hundred years since anyone called me by my name." he said to his former boss.
It was cleared up quickly, and Paul was given his effects back. He was particular about the stag handle knife.
Many days later, in Washington D.C., he was again sitting in a small office, his superiors giving him many congratulations of a job well done, his old boss, now a section chief, told him he only needed to ask anything of him. Paul though for a second.
"The only thing I wish, is that I could see my father again, it's been so long. My mother passed away when I was a kid and it was just him and me for years. And maybe go to a ball game. They don't play baseball in Russia. God, I've thought about a ball game and a hot dog with my pop."
His boss picked up a phone and asked someone "Is he here yet?"
Satisfied, he hung up and a moment later the the door opened and an older man was shown in. He was a short compact built man, with steel gray hair and blue eyes and had a definite family resemblence to Paul. Paul jumped up from his chair.
"POP!"
The two men embraced in the middle of the room. The old Russian coal miner from Pennsylvania took his son's face in his hands and looked him over carefully.
"They told me you were dead, but I never believe them. Nyet. I always know you will come back someday. We had a deal, da?"
"Sure pop, we had a deal. You know I'd never let you down." Paul said wiping the tears off his cheeks with the back of his hand. He reached into his pocket and took out the old stag handle pocketknife and handed it to the old man. His father looked it over carefully, and saw that it was in good shape, put it in his pants pocket. He looked at the man who was his son's boss.
"When my boy, when he leaves for the war, we make a deal. I loaned him my knife, and he has to live to return it to me. He has to come back, Da? When they tell me he is dead, I do not believe. He has not come back to give me the knife back. So, I wait. No matter how long, I wait for my boy to come home and give my knife back to me, yes?"
The old man had to wipe tears from his own eyes as he told the story of the loan in his heavily accented English. He looked at his long lost son.
"In the morning, we will go home. But today, we go to the stadium, where the Senators play. We have ball game to see and hot dogs to eat. Da?"
Paul looked at his father.
"Sure pop. We'll watch the Senators, and go home. But do me one big favor huh?"
"What favor you want? Anything I can do."
"No more Russian for a while, Pop. I've kind of had a belly full of it for a while." Paul said.
The old man nodded. The father and son walked out of the office, and as they were leaving, Paul's boss called out,
"Hey, aren't you interested in who the Senators are playing?"
"It doesn't matter." was all Paul had to say.
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