on a sunny fall afternoon, Boyd felt relief at being out of the cloak-and-dagger world of Tbilisi. To his right, the Caucasus Mountains rose, nearly a mile higher than the Colorado Rockies that he’d found so amazing during his days at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. Just like the front range of Colorado, water from melting snow had been channeled from the Caucasus into irrigation canals so that meadows could become row crops, of corn and wheat. But the meadows were returning as most of the huge collective farms of the Soviet era were neglected, and hundreds of small family plots of corn and grapes were tilled. Cattle and sheep grazed on the hillsides, but the milking sheds needed for a large modern dairy operation were abandoned. It was mom-and-pop agriculture eking along in the remnants of agribusiness, until he got to Zugdidi.
*****
“That’s Dadiani Palace, down there,” Lado Chikovani said expansively, propped up on a couch in the sun on the balcony of his villa up the hillside from Zugdidi. He’d taken the bandages off his neck and the fresh scar from the gunshot and the subsequent surgery was red and shiny in the sun. He was pointing to an ornate stone palace in the town below. It was surrounded by well-maintained grounds. The parking lot was full midmorning on a Saturday.
Boyd sipped coffee and enjoyed the warm fall day, eager for the vetting process to begin. Why would a man with all this risk it to get involved in passing nuclear secrets about Iran to the United States?
Ekaterina and her two brother s were in the driveway below greeting guests arriving early to the party planned for the afternoon. Lado’s wife, Mariami Chikovani, a handsome woman of middle years who spoke no English, had just left them to assist with caterers delivering great platters of food and drink. Lado’s estate spread up and along the mountain for some distance and supported several hundred black and white cattle. Boyd noticed a modern milking house at the bottom of the hill. Vineyards occupied the steeper hillside on the other side of the house. Winter wheat was sprouting in a field Boyd estimated to be a full section of land – 640 acres – to the south. Two modern grain elevators were along the adjacent road.
“My ancestor Gen. Prince Katzo Chikovani eliminated the rabble of nobility and assumed leadership of Mingrelia during a difficult time in 1681,” Lado said. “His son George assumed the traditional name of Mingrelian rulers and became Prince George IV Dadiani. All members of the ruling family of Mingrelia who followed him are blood members of the House of Chikovani.”
Lado pulled a package of cigarettes from beneath his pillow and lighted one. He peered over the railing to be sure Mariami wouldn’t see him.
“Niko Dadiani, the last ruling prince of Mingrelia. was deposed by the Russian Czar in 1858, and Mingrelia became part of Georgia; a part of Russia, really.”
Lado hurriedly flicked the cigarette over the rail when he heard his wife coming back up the stairs. He didn’t fool her; she had smelled the smoke and said something harsh in Mingrelian, found his cigarettes under the pillow and returned to the first floor with the package crushed in her hand.
“As part of the Soviet Union, all land belonged to the state. This was a collective farm,” he said, motioning to the land around them. “The Dadiani Palace became a museum.”
He stood to wave at some new arrivals.
Driving here the day before, Boyd had followed the map Ekaterina had given him and been stopped at the gate down the hill. Two guards had taken his official U.S. government passport and compared the name to a list they had. They were not locals, and their weapons and the ease with which they held them indicated that this was a profession and not a part-time job. They spoke to each other in Russian. Traffic was backed up on the road below, and now six guards were checking credentials.
“We Mingrelians were good Russians,
*****
“That’s Dadiani Palace, down there,” Lado Chikovani said expansively, propped up on a couch in the sun on the balcony of his villa up the hillside from Zugdidi. He’d taken the bandages off his neck and the fresh scar from the gunshot and the subsequent surgery was red and shiny in the sun. He was pointing to an ornate stone palace in the town below. It was surrounded by well-maintained grounds. The parking lot was full midmorning on a Saturday.
Boyd sipped coffee and enjoyed the warm fall day, eager for the vetting process to begin. Why would a man with all this risk it to get involved in passing nuclear secrets about Iran to the United States?
Ekaterina and her two brother s were in the driveway below greeting guests arriving early to the party planned for the afternoon. Lado’s wife, Mariami Chikovani, a handsome woman of middle years who spoke no English, had just left them to assist with caterers delivering great platters of food and drink. Lado’s estate spread up and along the mountain for some distance and supported several hundred black and white cattle. Boyd noticed a modern milking house at the bottom of the hill. Vineyards occupied the steeper hillside on the other side of the house. Winter wheat was sprouting in a field Boyd estimated to be a full section of land – 640 acres – to the south. Two modern grain elevators were along the adjacent road.
“My ancestor Gen. Prince Katzo Chikovani eliminated the rabble of nobility and assumed leadership of Mingrelia during a difficult time in 1681,” Lado said. “His son George assumed the traditional name of Mingrelian rulers and became Prince George IV Dadiani. All members of the ruling family of Mingrelia who followed him are blood members of the House of Chikovani.”
Lado pulled a package of cigarettes from beneath his pillow and lighted one. He peered over the railing to be sure Mariami wouldn’t see him.
“Niko Dadiani, the last ruling prince of Mingrelia. was deposed by the Russian Czar in 1858, and Mingrelia became part of Georgia; a part of Russia, really.”
Lado hurriedly flicked the cigarette over the rail when he heard his wife coming back up the stairs. He didn’t fool her; she had smelled the smoke and said something harsh in Mingrelian, found his cigarettes under the pillow and returned to the first floor with the package crushed in her hand.
“As part of the Soviet Union, all land belonged to the state. This was a collective farm,” he said, motioning to the land around them. “The Dadiani Palace became a museum.”
He stood to wave at some new arrivals.
Driving here the day before, Boyd had followed the map Ekaterina had given him and been stopped at the gate down the hill. Two guards had taken his official U.S. government passport and compared the name to a list they had. They were not locals, and their weapons and the ease with which they held them indicated that this was a profession and not a part-time job. They spoke to each other in Russian. Traffic was backed up on the road below, and now six guards were checking credentials.
“We Mingrelians were good Russians,
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