"In a classroom, on a football field and in a prison - these were the battlegrounds for some of the most fervent clashes waged in defense of civil liberties in New Jersey since 1960. Awardwinning journalist Mary Jo Patterson provides an exclusive front-row seat to these skirmishes in the book, On the Frontlines of Freedom, a look at the first 50 years of the American Civil Liberties Union of New Jersey. Patterson chronicles the rich and colorful history of the ACLU-NJ against the backdrop of changing social and political tides in New Jersey and America. The main fighters are the men and women who were brave enough to stand up for what was right, even in the face of unrelenting opposition. They were supported by the troops of the attorneys, staffers and civil libertarians who founded and worked at the ACLU-NJ since its founding in 1960. On the Frontlines of Freedom highlights the crucial work of the organization over the past 50 years and pays tribute to those who were bold enough to stand on the front lines. "I walked the smoldering streets of Newark with Hank di Suvero and his then-wife Ramona Ripston, introducing him to families of victims of police shootings during July 1967. Di Suvero, the new ACLU-NJ director, bravely sued the Newark Police Department when most of civil society was succumbing to irrational fear and law-and-order rhetoric. As history shows again and again, we need the ACLU to take unpopular stands when the Bill of Rights is threatened" - Tom Hayden, Newark Community Union Project, 1964-68; author, Rebellion in Newark, Random House, 1967 "This wondrously fascinating and informed narrative history of the life and times of the ACLU of New Jersey is far more than a welcomed chronicle of a venerable organization that protects the rights of citizens and settlers. It contributes as well to a deeper understanding of the complicated, contested and oft troublesome quest for a meaningful democracy in con
Almost Armageddon
By Neil PollackiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Neil Pollack
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4697-7360-5 Chapter One
Moscow. Late January 1991
There is no God. There is only Marx and Lenin. Of this, Venus was certain. The gospel according to the Communist doctrine provided her with the absolute truth that only fools believed in God, fools like the Jews—who instead of being allowed to emigrate voluntarily deserved to be thrown out of the Soviet Union—or Christians, who believed in Jesus. A man as God. How ridiculous. A childish crutch, Venus thought. There was only one supreme being, the Communist Party, and with body and soul she vowed to do all she could to save it. Now, she waited for Anatoly Pavel to bring the critical information on Alex Bell.
It was 9 p.m., and Pavel was late, but she didn't allow herself to become upset with him, as unspeakable events in Afghanistan had taught her that patience was the most rewarding of virtues. He would arrive in due time, she told herself, but the frigid Moscow night made her hope it would be shortly. She adjusted the collar of her Russian mink coat, defending herself against the subzero temperatures that felt even colder with the brisk January wind emanating from the Arctic tundra.
She watched her breath form puffs of disappearing clouds as she stood under a street lamp near the corner of Kropotkinskaya and Barykovsky Streets, mere blocks from Red Square—the heart of the Soviet Union. The street lamp's canopy of reflected light gave form to the otherwise invisible snowflakes that seemed to materialize from the shadow of the murky sky. The swirling, pristine crystals descended silently, floating weightlessly to the ground. Dry, brittle snow crunched under her fur-lined boots as she stamped her feet in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. She glanced at her watch. Ten past nine. He was ten minutes late. Her thoughts meandered toward Afghanistan, as they had countless times before.
Afghanistan. The mere thought of that desolate land brought back vivid memories she could never expel from her mind, no matter how hard she tried. Trained as a nurse, she'd been recruited into the war with Afghanistan during its early years, before the people and government became disillusioned with it. The Americans had their Afghanistan in Vietnam, fighting a war with tactics that could never win, a lesson that went unheeded by the Soviet government. She saw many men and even fellow nurses die horrible deaths in defense of Communism, the same Communism she was taught all her life was the one way the world should be.
On the battlefield, she learned to set a bone, stop the bleeding, bandage almost anything, and start an IV as well as anyone—certainly far better than any house doctor. Many of the wounds she saw—gaping wounds with intestines spilling out or horrible wounds to the head—were so severe that no medical miracle could fix them. She spent two years helping men—no, boys—survive their wounds. Some did, but some died, and many went home permanently disfigured. They had risked all they had to keep Communism alive in the cold, mountainous wasteland of Afghanistan.
When she returned home, her skills and attractiveness was not unnoticed by her superiors. They believed she'd make a marvelous intelligence officer, so they trained her. However, she soon grew disillusioned with the desk job they gave her. Somehow, after Afghanistan, pushing papers around her desk and fighting off advances from oversexed men wasn't what she envisioned for herself. After five years with the army, she asked for and received her honorable discharge.
She tried working as a nurse again for a while, but that, too, was something she came to loathe. Changing bedpans and the like was far too mundane for her. The battlefields of Afghanistan haunted her.
She let herself be recruited into the current clandestine cause during the early days of impending changes for the Soviet Union. The lure of doing something for Communism, for her beloved country, and the excitement of the covert work was an enticement she couldn't refuse.
She eventually was asked to perform assassinations by using her obvious talents. Though she did not believe herself to be a cold-blooded killer, she rationalized that the deaths of a few men were well worth the saving of her country and perhaps millions who might suffer and die from the upheaval that would come if Communism lost its grip on Soviet society. The men she killed were enemies. How many good young men did she see die in the mountains of Afghanistan? Too many to remember. The elimination of one or two counter-revolutionaries might help keep her cherished Soviet Union whole. Her reputation as an assassin earned her the code name "Venus," not after the goddess of love but for the Venus flytrap, which recognized her prowess as a silent killer.
She crossed her arms, hugging her coat around her as headlights turned the corner and bounced their beams off the frozen street. Venus squinted against the glare of the caroming lights that grew steadily larger as they approached her and slowed down. Recognizing the car as his, she stepped toward the street as the ancient Zaporozhets sedan skidded to a halt. A momentary chill shot through her body as she reached the car, a reflex action caused by something other than the bone-chilling temperatures.
The door on the passenger side sprang open from the inside, and she quickly stepped into the car. Brushing white flakes from her coat, she snapped, "You're late," knowing he would expect her to be angry. Role-playing was always easy for her—she was a chameleon who could adapt to any environment.
Fearing he would arrive late, Anatoly Pavel had memorized his response in the car but knew he would stumble over his words, no matter how hard he practiced. "I ... I'm sorry. My ... my wife asked me a hundred questions before I left. I know she suspects something, and I ... I had to assure her that leaving home at this strange hour was related to my job."
Her eyes flared. "You didn't say anything else, did you?"
Pavel squirmed as her penetrating eyes glared at him. She always made him squirm, but she was worth it. "Only that my new position with the party obligated me to attend meetings at strange hours."
The windshield wipers were now swatting flakes as thick as goose down. She put a cigarette between her lips, struck a match, and inhaled deeply, the tip of the cigarette glowing red hot in the darkened car.
"And she believed you?" She exhaled smoke directly into Pavel's face.
He coughed. "Of course. In twenty years of marriage, you're the only woman I've been with other than my wife. I'm not very good at lying to her, but I explained that much of my work is top secret, so meetings at this hour weren't unusual."
Satisfied, she nodded her head and said, "Drive." She proceeded to guide him to a large, deserted parking lot. The car's heater was working at capacity, so she opened her coat, revealing her woolen sweater and leather skirt. "You have it with you?"
He reached into his coat pocket and handed her an envelope. She tore it open and read the contents, carefully digesting the information.
Pavel watched her intently as she attended to business. He knew she'd be pleased with his work, and he'd been paid handsomely for the information. But it wasn't for the money; it was her, the most beautiful woman he'd ever been with. He had sex with her three times, and each time had been more fantastic than the time before. He hoped the information he provided this night would lead to another glorious sexual encounter. Pavel stared at the curve of her breasts and thought how incredibly delicious they appeared when she was naked, nipples hard and erect, and the images aroused him. He hoped she would agree to accompany him to the hotel room he had reserved. He continued to watch her sift through the material.
The documents revealed precisely what she had feared. The Americans had managed to locate Alex Bell, the man the CIA referred to as the Wolverine, who at this very moment was on a plane en route to Moscow. She knew the presence of Alex Bell could endanger Operation Caesar—the assassination of President Mikhail Gorbachev, whose liberal policies were threatening the breakup of the entire Soviet Union. She was well aware of the possible dire consequences for the world, should they succeed, as a destabilized Soviet Union potentially could lead to conflict with the United States, whose worstcase scenario might even lead to nuclear holocaust. But she believed saving her beloved Soviet Union was worth the risk. Her job was to determine if Alex Bell, purportedly the son of her leader, the former Yuri Belkov, was returning to the Soviet Union, and Pavel had helped her accomplish her mission.
Her expressive eyes conveyed her satisfaction. "You've done well." Then she added with a bitterly glacial tone, "These papers give us the information we need to continue to fight and ultimately expose the counter-revolutionaries for what they are—traitors to the cause."
Had those words been uttered in that manner by anyone else, Pavel would have dismissed them as being pure rhetoric, but he knew her words had sprung directly from her soul. "You're pleased?"
"Extremely." She smiled seductively.
Pavel placed a hand on her knee. "I made a reservation at the Varshava Hotel. I was hoping you'd go with me tonight."
She'd known he would ask; he always did, with that same immature pleading tone in his voice. Anatoly Pavel was a small-time political assistant who thought that the seedy Varshava Hotel, popular with tourists who were doing Russia on a limited budget, was the ultimate invitation for her. She had managed somehow to sleep with the foul-smelling pawn several times—at least a half dozen, though she couldn't remember exactly, or perhaps she chose not to. What she did remember was that she deserved an acting award for her performances. She'd had several meetings with Pavel over the past two weeks, using both sex and money as the initial lure, knowing that either one would work. It always did, just as it had with her mole at the US Embassy. She usually was able to concoct a decent excuse not to have sex with Pavel, but at those critical moments when she felt he would slip away from her and her mission, she used her talents to weave her web around him that much tighter.
But tonight was different. She had all the information she needed and was through with his services. She had one more job to perform that evening but decided to postpone it due to unexpectedly feeling a quirky desire—it awakened something sensual within her. "Let's do it in the car."
Pavel was caught completely by surprise. "In the car?" He blushed and then quickly became angry with himself at feeling embarrassed, but he'd never experienced anyone quite like her.
"Why not?" she urged. "The windows are frosted, and there's no one around."
"Are you certain? I have a room ..." His eyes opened wide, and his mouth dropped open as he watched her hike her skirt up to her waist and slide her panties off around her boots. She lifted her sweater above her bra and pulled her bra above her breasts, exposing her body from breasts to ankles, bathed in luxurious mink. She spread her legs, and he could resist no longer. To hell with the hotel room and its predictable sex. This is excitement. He'd never been laid in an automobile but now began to understand the American male's love affair with his car. He feverishly opened his belt buckle and pushed his pants and shorts down to his ankles. He was already hard. She smiled at the sight of his erection, thinking how little she would have to work this night to satisfy him. He slid to the passenger side, squeezed over, and faced her. She guided him into her and felt him shudder. He moved in and out of her, saying something, but she was preoccupied with slipping her hand into the deep pocket of her fur coat. She knew it would only take seconds for him to climax. The thought of his ecstasy and death occurring at the same moment triggered an orgasm in her.
He moaned as she clamped her legs around him, driving him closer, and he exploded in her. "Ooh, this is ... the best ... ever," he gasped as he jerked uncontrollably.
"Yes, love, yes," she soothed, "and you are the best."
As he reached his last ejaculation, he felt her nails digging into his buttocks, the pain of which he always enjoyed, except this time it felt even more sensual, the pain now erotically more intense.
A strange tingling sensation began to spread throughout his body. He stopped pumping, jerked reflexively backward, and stared at her. Anatoly Pavel thought he was having a heart attack. His eyes bulged open as he grabbed at his chest. He began to gulp air like a drowning man but felt as if he were breathing in a vacuum. His mouth opened wider and wider, but his last breath was already taken.
She wondered whether or not he knew what she'd done to him. Was it surprise or shock she saw on his face? She wished she could know what he was feeling and thinking. Although his fate was already sealed, she continued squeezing the plunger of the syringe until it could be squeezed no more.
In his last conscious moment, he was a dying animal of prey, seeking to take his predator with him. He grabbed for her throat, but the paralyzing drug took effect on his nervous system almost immediately—nothing known to man would make his heart start beating again. His eyelids fluttered as his eyeballs rolled to the back of his head. His body went limp, and his inanimate weight slumped heavily on top of her.
His sweaty body was draped over her like a giant rag doll, and she shoved him off. He rolled to the side, hit the steering wheel, and fell to the seat on his back. His wide-open eyes stared lifelessly at her. She reached for the carotid artery and felt for a pulse. There was none. The syringe, invented as a saver of life, had taken Anatoly Pavel's away from him.
She opened her purse, took out some tissues, and wiped between her legs. A thought crossed her mind that made her smile to herself—a part of him would remain alive inside her for a day or two, even though he was dead. She pulled her panties on and reassembled her clothing.
It was a struggle with his dead weight, but she managed to pull up his shorts and pants and buckle his belt. The drug, similar to the arrow poison curare, was almost untraceable unless someone was looking for it. This would be seen as a heart attack to a man overworked by the system. She hoped the death of a lower-echelon party member would raise no eyebrows and that Pavel would be buried soon enough, taking her secrets and identity with him—and that would render her invisible once more.
She turned the key and shut off the engine. When the authorities discovered his frozen corpse in the morning, it would be difficult for them to establish the time of death. Probably unnecessary, she thought, but she took precautions of this nature out of habit. The thought of how hard his frozen penis would be in the morning made her grin.
Her thoughts quickly turned to Operation Caesar. With the information on Alex Bell, it could proceed as scheduled, especially once her mole helped her make contact with him, ensuring that Bell couldn't endanger the plan.
She knew that that same evening, the former Yuri Belkov had sent two of her newfound cohorts to find a low-life whore named Tatiana, in order to confirm that the KGB knew there was a plot to kill Gorbachev, and that a Yuri Belkov was involved. Another cohort of the operation named Viktor, who had blabbered to the filthy snitching whore Tatiana, was appropriately eliminated by first blowing off his genitals with a shotgun blast and then obliterating his face with a second blast. Overkill, perhaps, but an example had to be set for any other potentially undisciplined coconspirators. The outcome regarding this Tatiana whore remained to be seen, but Venus would know soon enough.
Stepping out of the car, she scanned the parking lot and then vanished into the snowy shroud. The spirit of Communism had to be preserved.
Chapter Two
Tatiana lay naked on her bed as she watched the john drop a few extra rubles on her dresser and then walk out of her apartment. She was very good with this one, and the extra cash she earned soon would be stashed with other money she'd saved, hidden in a crack in the wall behind the old wrought-iron stove. Her dilapidated one-room flat served her well enough in her age-old profession, but with the money she'd hoarded she'd soon be able to afford something better than this hellhole, a pre–World War II apartment building in the poorest section of Moscow. She was thirty years old and had been a prostitute her entire adult life. She believed she deserved better.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Almost Armageddonby Neil Pollack Copyright © 2012 by Neil Pollack. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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