"Here Comes The Eagle, Here Comes The
Bear, And They're Fighting To Control
The Lion Dominion."
ZIGGY MARLEY AND THE MELODY MAKERS
CONSCIOUS PARTY © virgin records usa
PROLOGUE
ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA - 16 MARCH 1966
The Ethiopian Colonel ran steadily, the chase was on. He was in good physical shape, weighing only twenty pounds more than when he joined the Army twenty-seven years ago, but his face was beginning to show the strain. His body kept reminding him that he was forty-three years old. Now his range was no longer unlimited, his endurance suspect. Fortunately, his pursuer did not seem anxious to overtake him, keeping his speed constant with the Colonel's, slowing when he slowed, speeding up when he quickened his pace. At this rate he should be able to make it to the railroad yard in another few minutes and his ordeal would be over. But a new challenge would be waiting for his pursuer.
He knew he had prepared well. It was not a perfect plan but then, certainty is seldom achievable, especially in confrontations where deadly force is the only option. He had laid his own trap and set himself as the lure. He was like the goat staked out at night under an acacia tree, just as he had seen the nomad herders do years ago in the hot, fertile plains dotting the African Rift Valley that slashed through the middle of his country. But his intention this night was not to lure and destroy the lone prowling leopard or lion threatening the nomad's livestock, but to trap the professional killer who threatened the life of his emperor, Haile Selassie I, The Lion of Judah.
Another shot hit the ground a few meters to his left. They had been running for about fifteen minutes now and the pursuer's silenced weapon spat out a shot every few minutes, always landing off to his left. It was as if the shots were only precursors of some future peril, not the peril itself. He knew warfare, had been in many battles and shot at many times, and somehow knew that tonight's shots were purposely wide. However, the Colonel had neither the luxury of time nor the curiosity to question why, nor indeed did he care. His all-consuming concern was for the safety of His Emperor.
He was barely seven years old when he first saw Haile Sellasie at his coronation in 1930, proud to see his own father as part of the uniformed guard protecting the new African King. He had vowed at that moment that he too would someday become a professional soldier. And indeed he had done so, proving himself in many battles and rising higher than he had ever dared to dream. His father, who had fought against Mussolini's Italian invaders, had served as his model. As he rose through the ranks, the Colonel displayed his own valor fighting against the northern Muslim separatists in Eritrea, on Ethiopia's eastern borders against the Somali Muslims and in the Korean War where he was his battalion's Patrol Sergeant. But this night was different. This night he would have to do something he had never done before, draw a man into a trap and watch him die. He himself would become what he knew his pursuer to be, an assassin.
He ran through a night that was clear, cool and crisp, a typical night in this city that sits in the middle of a mountain plain almost 8,000 feet above sea level. Even though the night was bracing and he could see his breath misting before him, he could sense the bulletproof vest under his tunic sticking to the perspiration on his skin. And while the air was crisp, at this altitude his heart and lungs had to struggle to supply his muscles with the oxygen they were screaming for. The effort was etched on his face as he gulped in the rarified air. He reminded himself of the times when, as a young boy, he would run at his father’s side, straining to keep pace with him. His father had drilled it into him to keep the rhythm of his breathing separate from the rhythm of his running. He followed his father’s advice. He lengthened his stride and quickened his breathing, and began to feel re-invigorated. Looking up and scanning the northern sky, he found the Northern Cross and its brightest star Deneb, that constant shining beacon, used for centuries by the nomads to guide their way. He recalled the exact words his father had spoken to him when he took his oath of allegiance to the Emperor.
"Deneb will always be there my son, faithful and strong, as you yourself are and must continue to be. Selam, may God go with you."
He finally reached the railroad yard, turned a corner and stopped running. His legs leaden, his breathing labored, he rested against the rough mortar and straw wall that encircled the yard, keeping as much as possible in the dark and away from the dim fingers of light reaching out from the shuttered railroad station across the way.
Addis Ababa may be the only urban area of any size in Ethiopia. But even with a population of about 600,000 and a few modern buildings in its center but it is still more of a large village than a city. Eucalyptus trees grow throughout and most of the people live in native huts, just as in this section surrounding the railroad depot. At this time of night the streets and the paths were empty. The only hint of human habitation came from the charcoal fires warming the huts as their pungent fumes flavored the brisk night air. The only sounds were intermittent spasms of howling, as dogs answered each other from hut to hut, their barking rising in a crescendo, then dying down, then starting again. As such, this area was not policed after the last scheduled train had departed, usually about 6pm, and could be unfriendly to any unwary lone traveler who might wander in after nightfall. However, the Colonel had nothing to fear from his fellow Ethiopians for they knew him to be Selassie's shield. He was Colonel Bekele Kebede who commanded the Emperor's private security, the palace guard.
But his pursuer was not an Ethiopian, not Somali nor Eritrean, not even an African. The man on his tail was one of the KGB's most able killers. Colonel Kebede knew that the Russian had been watching him closely for the past two weeks, ever since the last meeting of the Organization of African Unity. On the first day of that conference he had noticed a new face in the Russian delegation, a round, hard face which seemed to be going out of its way not to notice him. Initially it was only a strong intuitive feeling, a "gut feeling" as his American friends called it. They knew he relied heavily on these intuitive feelings. He was convinced that they had kept him out of harm's way throughout his service in the Korean conflict with the 900 man 2nd Kagnew Battalion that Haile Selassie had contributed to the U.N. effort. They had also served him well during the ensuing twelve years he had spent as a covert operative for the American CIA. Toward the end of the second day of the conference he was able to convey his suspicions to his American contact at the OAU, ostensibly an ex-officio Danish observer.
Indeed, his suspicions were borne out over the last five days as he was able to isolate the new face following him whenever he left the Emperor's compound. At first he was puzzled at the ease with which he was able to spot the Russian, but chalked it up to a combination of his own training and experience and the Russian's lack of good tradecraft. Thankfully, the Americans had responded quickly and verified his suspicions just the day before. In a coded message left for the Colonel at a dead drop in the library at the National University, they informed him that the stockily built Slav was credentialed as Yvgeney Grigorovich, an Agricultural Liaison Officer attached to the Soviet Embassy in Addis Ababa. However, the message warned, he should know that Yvgeney Grigorovich had actually entered this world as Valeri Treznev. Further, while his official credentials indicated an involvement with agricultural matters, his primary function was as Deputy Colonel in the KGB, not so much involved in making things grow as making things, especially enemies of the state, cease to be. This man, whom the Agency referred to as 'Fyodor' was, in fact, the #2 man in Department Thirteen of the First Chief Directorate, an extremely adept assassin to whom was entrusted only the most important of such assignments. The message went on to say that, until additional information becomes available, the Colonel should be cautious and avoid all direct contact with the Russian.
As disturbing and confusing as this information and its implications were, it was a follow-up flash message handed to him that morning that really alarmed him. It happened after an otherwise uneventful visit of diplomats from the Ivory Coast. The Emperor had received them in his palace and, afterward, as Colonel Kebede was escorting the visitors out of the throne room, one of them discretely passed a small gray envelope to the Colonel, whispering ‘Patrick’ as he did so. The Colonel swallowed his surprise, palming the envelope and slipping it into the side pocket of his tunic as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. He did not know the individual who had passed him the envelope, but ‘Patrick’ was the work name by which he knew his American handler. This, added to the fact that he had never received a message in this dangerous ‘brush-by’ fashion before, heightened his sense of anxiety.
The remainder of the morning passed by painfully slowly and it wasn’t until after the Emperor’s lunch with his children and grandchildren that Colonel Kebede was able to leave Haile Selassie’s side and retreat to his own office. He locked the door behind him, sat at his desk and examined the envelope suspiciously, turning it over and over in his hands. There was nothing remarkable about it, nothing to note except the name ‘Solomon’ in block letters in the front and the name ‘Patrick’ scrawled on the flap. He carefully prised open the flap and removed and unfolded the single page he found inside. After making sure that the envelope was empty, he placed it in his top drawer and turned his attention back to the page spread out before him.
The opening sentence told him that the message was geared to that day’s book code. He extracted his copy of The Kings James Bible from the credenza behind him and began to decode the message. It was a long one and the furrows on his brow became deeper the deeper he got into the message. It informed him that new intelligence had emerged - the situation had changed and Fyodor was indeed a threat. The KGB assassin‘s principal target was Haile Selassie and the Colonel himself would be ‘eliminated’ prior to the assault on the Emperor. He was instructed to take any measures he felt appropriate. It was strongly suggested that striking first was an allowable and preferable option. The sender also instructed him to destroy the message immediately after reading it.
He reread the message four times. He was a cautious man and the enormity of this new information along with the instruction to ‘strike first’ dictated that he have no misunderstanding about what he had been ordered to do. He sank back in his chair, closed his eyes and concentrated on what he must do.
The content and implications of the message were so troublesome to Colonel Kebede that he ignored several factors that might otherwise have given him pause. In his initial training sessions on tradecraft, held by the Americans at their Central Intelligence Training Facility at Camp Casey in Tongduchon-ni, Korea before he returned home with his battalion, he had been given a crash course on operational protocols. The majority of these protocols involved means of communication, the various ways meetings were to be arranged, fallbacks established and messages sent and received without being detected. The method by which this message was delivered, the so-called ‘brush-by’ method, was deemed inadvisable, to be used only when no other method was available. Secondly, the sender was not identified and he only assumed that it was from Patrick because of the whispered mention of the name. Finally, destruction of the message immediately after absorption of the contents was a basic tenet of the catechism and need never be repeated in the body of the text.
However, reacting to the new information and to the close scrutiny imposed on him by Fyodor, Colonel Kebede decided that the ‘first strike’ option referred to in the message was the preferable one. He knew what he had to do and knew that it must be done immediately, as the Russian would most probably have his own plan in place by now. That night would be the time and he quickly decided on the place and method. He sent word for his brother to join him and then proceeded to encrypt a message of acknowledgement to Patrick. Using a one-time pad, he laboriously worked out his response.
16Mar66 - PATRICK: Acknowledge earlier message re: Fyodor.
Acknowledge warning about possible attack on Leo and instructions received this date from Ivory Coast diplo. Will carry out this pm. If you receive this, was successful and Fyodor eliminated. Must insist, no further contact until Jamaica. (Signed) SOLOMON
After briefing and dispatching his brother Pesfate, a Captain under his command in the Emperor's guard, Colonel Kebede carried on with his official duties for the remainder of the day. The final item on the Emperor’s schedule was an informal evening reception for the delegates to the U.N. Economic Commission, most of whom would be returning home the following day to report back to their ministers. The reception would be over by 10pm by which time the Emperor would be secure in his quarters. At 9:45 the Colonel turned command of the Palace Guard over to his brother Pesfate who had returned after carrying out his mission, and walked out of the reception by the front door, making sure he was observed and followed. He hoped that tonight his uniform would make it easier for the assassin to follow him and would convince him that one man would be sufficient.
He was right on both counts. The Russian started tailing him as soon as he had left the reception and had stayed with him. He was relieved to see that Fyodor was alone, he was not operating in tandem with a backup. The Colonel also made sure that the route he took kept him completely out in the open and did not offer any easy opportunities for the Russian to close the gap between them. He calculated that the Russian would not risk a gun shot of more than 100 meters and his vest might offer a reprieve if he were wrong. More importantly, he had been informed that Fyodor’s record of accomplishments indicated that he preferred close quarters with a knife or garrote. Well, the Colonel intended to make sure that he got his wish.
It was the first shot from Fyodor that convinced him to move more quickly. When the pop of the Russian's weapon was immediately followed by a miniature eruption of dirt and pebbles to his left he instinctively began to run. He couldn't let his enemy close the distance between them before he reached the railroad yard and he didn't want to return the fire and engage in a shoot-out for that would frustrate his plan.
Now, resting against the rail yard wall, he caught his breath as he let the Russian begin to close the gap between them. He knew there would be no passenger activity at this time of night and that the laborers would have finished loading the railroad cars with their cargoes of coffee, beans and peas for the morning run up to the Gulf port of Djibouti in Afars and Issas. The two additions he would make to the cargo would not appear on any manifest nor would they arrive at Djibouti. They would be off-loaded before leaving Ethiopian soil. His brother would drive out of the capital late tonight in a 3/4 ton truck he had secured from a friendly source who would report the truck stolen the following morning. He would meet the train during a scheduled noontime stop in Dire Dawa, the next to last stop in Ethiopia. Here, he would himself transfer two "packages" from the train to the truck for the final leg of their trip, a 3 hour drive east to Berbera, a smaller Somalian port on the Gulf of Aden, 300 kilometers southeast of Djibouti. The Captain would set fire to the truck in a secluded gully on the outskirts of Berbera after placing the larger 'package' in the driver's seat. He would then put on a shamma, a toga-like wrap, over his uniform and walk into Berbera. There, after passing the smaller 'package' to his Somali contact, a conduit used by the Americans, the Captain would take a packet boat up to Djibouti and return to Addis Ababa by train.
The Colonel had only ten meters to go until he reached the end of the wall separating the railroad yard from the passenger depot. The depot was now dark and the only source of light was a dim floodlight perched atop a pole in the far corner of the yard. There was no sound, no sign of activity, so he was sure that the trains were loaded and locked and the workers gone. The only person remaining would be the night watchman, an Eritrean of formidable strength who had served in Korea under the Colonel, and who owed him both his allegiance and gratitude for his current employment.
As Colonel Kebede turned the corner, he could sense the Eritrean flattened against the wall, waiting in the shadows as instructed. He ran on into the railroad yard, his lungs still laboring from the physical exertion of the last fifteen minutes, his heart racing in anticipation of the next fifteen seconds. He stopped in the shadow of one of the loaded freight cars, his back still to his pursuer, his life now in the hands of the Eritrean. Fyodor turned the corner, stopped and held both hands out from his body, one holding his pistol and the other a small envelope. He shouted in English at the Colonel, "Solomon. There is treachery. We must talk!"
Immediately as he did so, the Eritrean stepped out of the shadows and, in one swift movement, slipped the garrote around his neck and jerked him backwards to the ground. Fyodor threw his hands instinctively to his throat, sending the envelope and pistol flying. But the piano wire had already begun to slice through his neck. The Eritrean flipped him onto his stomach and, with his knee in the small of his back, kept the pressure on the garrote while the Russian clawed at the wire and fought for breath, his throat and windpipe being crushed and severed in the struggle. When the Colonel finally realized what the Russian had said, he ran back screaming at the Eritrean to loosen the garrote. Everything that had happened in the last few days, the conflicted coded messages, the Russian's actions tonight, all were upside down. Something was very wrong.
But it was too late. He ran to where the Russian lay, face down in a pool of blood, and turned him over. Fyodor was no longer gasping and gagging. Blood no longer spewed with every spasm, only seeped slowly from his lifeless form. The Colonel fought back the nausea building in his gut and the confusion growing in his brain. He looked around and picked up the Russian's pistol and the envelope he'd been holding, both lying blood-covered on the ground. His instinct told him that the assassin, who would kill no more, had performed one final act. He had tried to warn the Colonel about some treachery, and his use of the Colonel's CIA work name "Solomon" told him that whatever danger was implied had to be coming from within the Agency.
The Colonel and the Eritrean carried the body to the rear of the last railroad car loaded with 30 kilo sacks of coffee from the highlands. They dumped it into an empty space in front of the last row of sacks and covered it with four of the sacks. The Eritrean closed and locked the door of the rail car, using the key he had copied for the Colonel that afternoon. Colonel Kebede pressed a small amount of money into the Eritrean's thankful hands and disappeared into the gathering gloom.
Returning by 11pm to his quarters within the Emperor’s compound, Colonel Kebede immediately summoned his brother. Then he removed his blood-spattered tunic, laboriously worked his way out of the bulletproof vest and washed his head, face and upper body. His brother Pesfate arrived and, in answer to his questioning glare, the Colonel brought him up-to-date as he toweled off. He was still puzzled by the events of the evening and realized that the envelope he had retrieved from the Russian might hold the key to unlock that puzzle. He was not surprised to discover that it contained the identical type of paper as his envelope had and contained a similar message using the same code. While there was no mention of an assassination plot against the Emperor, the message informed the Russian that the Colonel had orders to kill him. The Russian was similarly given the ‘first strike’ option, along with the instruction to destroy the message immediately after reading. The Colonel immediately regretted having followed the latter instruction himself but was deeply grateful that the Russian had not.
He placed his coded message to Patrick in an attaché case, along with the Russian's pistol and the contents of his pockets, including a garrote and a switchblade knife, and a smaller caliber pistol that the Russian was carrying in an ankle holster. He also included the small gray envelope the Russian had been holding, along with the envelope he had received from the visitor from the Ivory Coast. Other than the blood smears and the names written on the front, the envelopes were identical. The only thing he did not include was the message he had taken from the Russian’s envelope and his intuition told him to hold onto it. His 'gut feelings’ told him that whatever was going on had to be coming from within the CIA and the physical evidence of the Russian’s letter could eventually be extremely important to him.
Colonel Kebede was bothered by this worrisome turn of events. Whoever had instigated this confrontation between him and the Russian wanted at least one of them, if not both, out of the way. "Patrick" was whispered to him as the source of his message, but he knew that Patrick could not be the source of either one of these messages. He had been working directly for Patrick for four years now and had grown to respect and trust him. He prayed that the awkward and time-consuming method he was now employing would work and that the Captain, his brother Pesfate, would succeed in sending the attaché case on its way to Patrick and that his sense of impending danger would be shared by the Americans. His decision to cut off all further contact with Patrick until they could meet face to face had been justified in the knowledge that he had been somehow compromised and his cover had been penetrated.
He was an honorable man and, even though he was a soldier, he disliked having to kill anybody, especially under these highly questionable circumstances. But, the mere possibility of an assassination attempt upon his beloved Emperor's life here in Addis Ababa or, more likely, during their upcoming tour of Jamaica, superseded all other considerations.
* * * * * *
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VA. - March 20, 1966
The attaché case arrived at CIA/Langley by diplomatic pouch from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. It was quickly identified as having been sent from Addis Ababa by Solomon, and was immediately delivered to Room 711, the office of Deputy Director - Africa, a Mr. Gerard O’Keefe, work name ‘Patrick’. The fact that ‘Solomon’, the Ethiopian Colonel Bekele Kebede, a proven, reliable and irreplaceable covert asset for over twelve years, had not been heard from for several days accounted for the immediacy with which it was handled.
When the attaché case finally arrived at 9:07 that morning, the first thing O’Keefe looked for was a message from his agent. He tore open Colonel Kebede’s note and, within five minutes, had unbuttoned it. As he digested the decoded version his mood went from black to blacker, his concerns mounting. The first item that Bekele referred to, the identification of Fyodor, was indeed from him. But the rest of his note was disturbing. The warning of an assassination plot against Haile Selassie (Leo) did not come from him. And, more importantly, the very fact that he received the note meant that Fyodor was dead. His newest agent, successfully recruited after years of work, had been eliminated by his oldest agent who believed he was following his orders.
By 10 o’clock, O’Keefe still hadn’t finished poring over the contents of the attaché case. He slumped at his desk as the mid-morning sun fought its way through the mist rising from the Virginia countryside and spilled through the reinforced glass window of his office. The sunlight settled on his desk and glinted off the array of metallic objects he’d arranged there. To his left, a Russian-made Stechkin Automatic Pistol (APS - Automaticheskij Pistolet Stechkina), with its 3-position safety lever set at single-shot mode and its rear-mounted sight set at 100 meters. Next to it, the 20-round magazine that he’d ejected from the Stechkin, now holding 12 rounds. Then a smaller pistol, the one he’d extracted from the ankle holster, a Czech Vz.50 with its 8-round magazine full and a red dot visible on the frame indicating that the safety was off. Finally, on the far right, two more items. A switchblade knife, a German-made Boker 712 leverlock, along with the wrapped and twisted strands of piano wire stretched between two wooden handles. It was clear from the condition of the wires that the garrote had seen some recent use. The attaché case lay where he had flung it, on the floor to his right, open, upside down and empty. The other contents of the attaché case, the Russian’s identity documents, Russian and Ethiopian currency, an ankle holster and two envelopes were arrayed in front of the pistols and the garrote. He kept staring at all the items laid out before him, checking them off against the manifest he’d composed in his head. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. And something was missing.
O’Keefe picked up the envelopes and examined them again. He had done this several times and his conclusions hadn’t changed. The only differences between them were the addressees, and the soil and bloodstains on the one addressed to Fyodor. The only hint as to what the envelopes may have contained was in Bekele’s note. But it was only a hint. Bekele had not forwarded the contents of either. To the extent that Bekele thought he’d received instructions from Patrick to eliminate Fyodor, he could only assume that Fyodor received similar instructions, both from the same source, and that source had to be somewhere inside the agency. The fingerprints of a turncoat, the mole O’Keefe had been searching for over the last several years, were all over this. O’Keefe figured his mole had to know that Fyodor had been turned and that it wouldn’t have taken long for Fyodor to identify him. The son of bitch was getting desperate. O’Keefe had to get him before he bolted.
* * * * * *
The contents of the attaché case kicked off a series of events over the next few months, the Agency's version and analysis of which have been chronicled in a TOP SECRET CODE WORD file called "SOLOMON 66".
However, there are those who participated in these events who would chronicle them differently. THE LION DOMINION is their story.
