Black Ghosts (26 page)

 

Yazarinksy leaned on the driving wheel, his eyes still, his head slowly moving from one side to the other like a shark searching for its prey, scanning the crowds that filled the sidewalks outside the TASS Building. He was parked near the corner of Hertzen Street and the Boulevard Ring, in full view of the round-cornered windows from which Russian media people have looked to the world for the last fifty years. He could still remember the good old days, not so long ago, when the news was made inside that building rather then collected outside. A much more efficient and positive system, he thought.

A young, attractive woman caught his eye, her light brown hair blowing in the chilly air as she walked briskly down the street. Yazarinsky leaned over and was about to open the door when he realized as she came closer that it wasn't the woman he was waiting for. He let her pass by unmolested.

He did not mistake her a second time. There she was, walking directly toward him. He opened the passenger door and the woman got in beside him.

“Greetings, Major Androva,” he said, his mouth dry. He was not very accustomed to talking to women, especially women as beautiful as this one. Young boys whom he could easily impress were his preference.

“Greetings, Colonel,” she said, her tone neutral. She did not like Yazarinsky and preferred to deal with him as little as possible. She was not particularly pleased that it was he who had been sent to pick her up. Surely the general had other men at his disposal.

Perhaps reading her mind, Yazarinksy spoke carefully. “Owing to the sensitivity of your mission, General Rogov asked me personally to come and ensure your safety.”

“Delighted, I'm sure,” murmured Major Androva. Yazarinksy did not miss her ironic tone. Although she was technically his junior, he felt a need to impress her, to gain her favor.

“The general has expressed his appreciation for what you have done for us.”

“I'm so very pleased. I believe we shouldn't keep the general waiting.” There was silence.

Abandoning all attempts at conversation, Yazarinsky concentrated on driving. Within an hour they had cleared the confines of the city and were speeding eastward along a country road.

 

 

 

The intercom on Peter's desk buzzed. “Colonel Yazarinksy and Major Androva have arrived, sir.”

“Send Major Androva in immediately. Yazarinsky can wait.”

He had barely finished his sentence when the door opened and Major Androva stepped into the general's private quarters. Peter got up and walked around the desk to greet her, hands outstretched, a twitch to his lip that passed for a smile.

“Kalinka,” he said.

She smiled at this use of her childhood nickname, the one her father, the general's best friend, had always used. Her father had been a diplomat. For several years he was head of the KGB station at the Soviet Embassy in Washington, and Major Androva had spent a good part of her childhood there. Her father and the general had been friends since before she was born. It was at the veterans hospital in Gorky, where he was dying of cancer, that he had told his daughter of his plans for the Black Ghosts and had Rogov promise to take care of her and find her a place in the new world order when the time came.

Looking at her, Peter realized he had not seen a finer-looking woman in a very long time. Perhaps, if things went well . . . But this was not the time to be thinking about that. He brought his mind back to the business in hand. “Was your mission successful?”

“Very much so.”

“Please, have a seat. Did you bring the component?”

“Yes,” said Androva. She reached inside her blue duffel bag and pulled out a small integrated circuit board, which she handed to the general. When he saw it, his eyes lit up.

“Just a minute.” He pressed the intercom.

“Yes, general,” came a metallic voice.

“Is Nazirov from communications there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send him in.”

A tall, jittery man entered. He stood at an awkward attention, saluting with some effort to avoid tilting over.

“Okay, Nazirov,” said the general. “That's enough pageantry for one day.” He handed him the circuit board. “Here. Install this in the communication array.”

“Sir.” The man took the component and looked at it closely. “We already have this component in place, sir. What is this for?”

“The one you have is no good, it's a fake.” The general's voice was without passion. “This one will work.”

“Yes, sir.” The man tried to salute again and left the room.

“What do they call them in the West, nerds?” said Peter. “He could probably get you a line to the moon using a sardine can, but he can't stand up straight.” They both laughed.

“Well done, Kalinka. I think this calls for a little celebration.” Peter opened his desk drawer and took out a bottle of vodka and two glasses which he placed on the table, filling them to the brim with the clear liquid.

“Major Androva,” said Peter, raising his glass, “what you have done will be written in the history books of Russia. I can assure you of that. To Russia!”

“To Russia!” Androva said with a grin, and they finished off their glasses in a single draft.

“Another?” said Peter.

“In a moment.”

“As you wish. Now, tell me, what of our American friend?”

“I'm afraid I can tell you nothing. I lost contact with him at the Grave of the Unknown Soldier. I have no idea where he is now. Did you not have him under surveillance?”

Peter sighed. “We tried, but by the time Colonel Sokolov's men got to his hotel, he had vanished. A most regrettable situation. Do you have any idea of who it was that he was supposed to meet at the Grave of the Unknown Soldier?”

“None whatsoever. But it seems certain that it was someone from our organization.”

“Dammit,” said Peter, banging his fist on the table. “We have to find out who is the traitor among us.”

Major Androva smiled sweetly. “We still can. I'm sure Edward will be getting in touch with me soon. After all, to him I'm still Natalie.”

 

“Okay, Richy, let's hear it,” President Bradshawe said to his old friend.

“Well, Jim, I must say I feel much better about the situation in Russia than I did before.”

“And what, may I ask, brought about this new perspective?”

“These,” said Townes, placing a folder on the president's desk. The two men were alone in the Oval Office, a tray of coffee and Danish on the table between them.

“What's in there?”

“Satellite photos of Western Russia. And a series of shots of Moscow. I wanted to bring them over myself the moment they came in.”

“What's in them that we didn't know before?”

“I wasn't sure whether Konyigin could get the army to do what he wants. He said he was going to take special precautions before the summit and . . . well, we both know the man's a pathological liar—he'd say anything to get his way. But this time I believe he came through.” Townes leaned over the desk and opened the file. “Look,” he said, pointing to red markings on the glossy satellite photos. “I had the analysts mark them. You can see. If I didn't know better, I'd say the army was taking over. But the boys over at Langley said they have read communiqués coming out of the Kremlin, positioning every single unit to where it's deployed.”

“I guess the terrorist activity really lit a fire under Konyigin. The bastard obviously knows how to get things done when he wants to.” The president was satisfied. “So I take it you're no longer opposed to this trip?”

“I'd still prefer if he was coming here, Jim. But under the circumstances, I guess we're going to Moscow.”

“I'm glad you see it that way, Richy. There was no way this trip was going to be canceled, but having you onside means a lot to me.”

After a brief internal battle with himself, the president took another pastry from the tray. He bit into it, depositing a small amount of strawberry jelly in the corner of his mouth.

“Who else is coming along?” Townes asked, returning the photos to the file.

“Everybody, I guess. You know how that is, Richy. If you're in Washington during a summit, it means you're out of the loop.”

“Are we bringing any civilians along?”

“Sure, we'll have some business people, make it look like whatever we'll be giving the Russians is from private pockets. Besides, we need to let the metal-eaters have first pick at the Russian market—after all, they're the ones who lost the most out of this peace. If they have to shoulder the so-called peace dividend, we should at least let them plunder the other side's natural resources.”

“So I take it Hubert Austin and his associates will be along.”

“Don't forget I owe him.”

“How come?”

“He's my biggest contributor. If it wasn't for him and some of his friends, I don't think I would have made it to New Hampshire, never mind the White House.”

“I don't like him. He gives me the willies.”

“Well, Richy, as long as he keeps giving me the dough, you will learn to like him.”

“Are we going to stop in London?”

“I guess we have to,” said the president. “A courtesy visit, if nothing else. Not that the Brits have been very courteous to us lately.”

“Why bother, then?”

“Habit, I guess.” The president shrugged philosophically. “If they want to kid themselves they are an important part of the new world order, we have nothing to lose by humoring them.”

He reached into his pocket for the tube of Rolaids. “By the way,” he said, washing down the tablets with the last of his coffee, “any more developments on our special project?”

Townes' face darkened. “I was getting to that. Jim, things have turned out rather badly, I'm afraid. The person we had on the job screwed up. I don't know how, exactly, but we've lost contact with him. It could be that he himself is one of the Patriots.”

President Bradshawe's face wore an angry frown. “Richy, I told you we needed your best people on this. I was counting on you. What the hell went wrong?”

Townes shifted in his seat, embarrassed. “I don't know. But I'm going to find out, don't you worry. As soon as we've finished dealing with the Russians, I can promise you that the Patriot problem will be solved once and for all.”

 

 

 

“The London stop is no problem,” James Fenton, the head of the president's Secret Service detail, said to Terry Kay, the president's personal secretary. “It'll be the usual routine. Hourglass lands at Heathrow, from there to No. 10, then Chequers for the night. Then Heathrow first thing. That should put us out of there by 8 a.m.”

“So we land in Moscow when?”

Fenton leafed through his papers. “Around eleven. That gives us about an hour to get to the Kremlin for the official reception at twelve noon.”

“What's that in New York time?”

“Ah, 4 a.m., I believe.”

“So no live news coverage. Too bad.” Kay's mouth turned downward.

Fenton was still less happy about the situation. All intelligence reports stated that terrorist activity in Russia had been quelled, and that Moscow itself was heavily fortified with Russian troops and mechanized divisions. Still, he had worked for too long in the shadow of the Cold War to feel comfortable about large concentrations of Russian troops, even if they were allies now and there to defend his president.

Fenton had requested that a company of U.S. Marines be allowed to take positions around Sheremetyevo Airport. But the Russians had balked at that. They said they were perfectly capable of assuring the security of the president and his entourage, and that the presence of American soldiers on Russian soil would not only be completely unnecessary, but also a veiled insult to Russia, implying that Russian soldiers were too weak to do the job properly themselves.

Fenton had to admit they had a point. He couldn't imagine a company of Russian soldiers, except perhaps a ceremonial guard of honor or military band, being allowed to goose-step their way across the tarmac of Dulles International Airport. So why should the Russians allow GIs into Sheremetyevo? Still, he would have felt much better if those Marines could be there, instead of Russian troops.

Leaving these difficulties aside, things could have been worse. The Moscow detail of the Secret Service, working out of the U.S. Embassy, reported that they were getting full cooperation from the Russian military and special security forces, which was something, at least. And Fenton had ensured that the itinerary and schedule were cast iron and watertight.

“We'll have four identical limos backed up to where the president comes out of the plane,” he explained to Kay. “There'll be a minimal reception at the airport—the Russian foreign minister, a couple of other dignitaries, that's all. A very quick handshake, no fanfare, and then into the limo. I personally will decide which limo he gets into as we land. We go straight to the Kremlin. The Russian security people have explained that they will have the Kremlin guarded by a crack airborne elite corps, which will be put in place shortly before we land. I tell you, I'm not going to feel safe until we have the president safely inside the Kremlin, with President Konyigin.”