Russian Spring (26 page)

It had certainly taken her long enough to get here! If she was not quite in disfavor, she knew full well that she had long been skating on thin bureaucratic ice, for she had only finally acceded to this position by plodding bureaucratic seniority, which was not the way things usually worked in the Red Star meritocracy at all.

By rights, she should have been
department head
long ago; she had been in the economic strategy department longer than anyone, she knew France far better than any of the timeservers they had brought in from Russia above her, and it was only Jerry who had kept her from advancing as she should have.

That had once more been made painfully clear when they had brought Ilya Pashikov in from Moscow to be department head above her two months ago instead of giving her the job when Gorski left for the London post.

Indeed Pashikov himself had seemed rather embarrassed at their first meeting in the big corner office. He had admitted with rather engaging forthrightness that she should have been seated behind the big old walnut desk instead of himself. “But under the circumstances . . . ,” he had said, without quite meeting her gaze. And she had not been crude enough to force him to amplify.

For she knew only too well that she was in political purdah. Oh yes, they had given her her Party card or she would never have even gotten this far, but her kharakteristika had plenty of good-sized gray marks, if not quite any great big black one.

She had never worked in the Soviet Union. She had secured this coveted Parisian posting in a politically shady manner, which, while it spoke favorably for her negotiating abilities, made her political loyalties slightly suspect.

More to the point, she was married to an American, who, while he might be considered a traitor by Washington, was still perversely
American enough to refuse the benefits of Soviet citizenship to her own children.

She had ranted and raved at Jerry for weeks after Pashikov had come in over her, but he would have none of it. His eyes would glaze over, and he would mutter “politique politicienne,” and he would disappear back into outer space.

The coffee came whooshing and foaming into the cup, and Sonya gulped half of it down. Why couldn’t he understand? It could be so
easy
. It wasn’t as if she was asking him to renounce his own American citizenship. All he had to do was let Robert and Franja become citizens of the Soviet Union, as was their right under Soviet law.

But no—

The intercom buzzed. “Ilya here, Sonya, where have you been, I’ve been—”

“I’m sorry, Comrade Pashikov, the children—”

“Yes, yes, well, will you please come to my office right now—”

“If you’ll just give me a few minutes to get together the daily—”

“Never mind the daily update for now, we can go over that after lunch,” Pashikov said, “this is about another matter.”

Sonya somehow didn’t like the sound of that, and when she reached the Director’s office, she didn’t like the look on Ilya Pashikov’s face either.

She and Pashikov had developed a peculiar relationship, somewhat strained on the one hand, yet on the other less strained than it could have been under the circumstances.

Pashikov was a few years younger than Sonya, with elegantly coifed long blond hair very much à la mode, clear blue eyes, and dramatically chiseled, almost Tartar features, and he wore his expensively tailored clothes like a model and moved like a dancer. He was one attractive male animal, Sonya could not help but find him attractive, and oh yes, he knew it.

It would have been insufferable if he had acknowledged this, but Ilya Pashikov was very much the suave Eurorussian man of the world; indeed, since this was his first assignment outside the Soviet Union, he worked hard at it.

Pashikov was clearly one of the Moscow Mandarinate’s favorite sons; what for Sonya was the long-denied apex to an ordinary bureaucratic career was for him only a way station on a fast-track rise to the top of the Red Star hierarchy, and perhaps beyond. Ilya Pashikov was undeniably
connected
.

If Sonya was overqualified to be his assistant, Pashikov was a bit underqualified to be director of the economic strategy department, and one of his charms was that it seemed to embarrass him, at least in her presence. He relied upon her to put together the reports and
strategy papers which he delivered to the Paris director as his own and let his embarrassment at that show too from time to time.

Pashikov looked embarrassed right now, but there was something squirmy and furtive about it, which had never at all been Ilya’s style.

“Problems with Robert and Franja again?” he said as he poured her a glass of tea from the samovar.

Sonya shrugged. “The usual big sister, younger brother business,” she said, “you know teenagers!”

Pashikov shrugged. “I’m afraid I do not,” he said, “single as I unfortunately am. . . .”

“Yes, I know,” Sonya said dryly, “and you find it a great hardship.”

Ilya laughed. “I manage to survive, with a little help from my lady friends,” he admitted.

“Surely we are not here to discuss my children or your love life, Ilya Sergeiovich. . . .”

Pashikov frowned. “As you know, I am not one to meddle in your domestic affairs,” he said, “but . . .”

“But?”

Pashikov drummed his fingers nervously on the desktop. “This is not my idea, you understand, I find this rather embarrassing. . . .” he muttered, avoiding her eyes.

“There is an old Russian proverb which I have just made up,” Sonya told him. “ ‘When you find yourself with a turd in your mouth, it is best to either swallow it immediately or spit it out at once, considering the flavor.’ ”

Pashikov laughed. “It’s about the new Director of the European Space Agency. . . .” he blurted.

Sonya cocked her head at him expectantly.

“Emile Lourade . . . ? He is an old friend of your husband, is he not?”

Jerry is meeting with him right now
, Sonya’s instincts kept her from saying. “In a manner of speaking . . . ,” she said instead.

“Something very peculiar is going on at the European Space Agency, surely being married to Jerry Reed, you know that much . . . ,” Pashikov said slowly.

“You mean about the way Emile Lourade suddenly became Director?”

Pashikov nodded. “He goes to Strasbourg, it would seem not at all under orders from Armand Labrenne. He talks privately with delegates and Ministers. He testifies to Parliamentary committees at closed meetings, which the
KGB
is unable to penetrate. When he comes back to Paris, Labrenne resigns for so-called health reasons, even though his medical records, which the
KGB
was
able to access, show nothing of the kind, and Lourade becomes Director. . . .”

“So?” Sonya said.

“So you tell me. . . .”

“Tell you what?”

“What happened?”

“I don’t understand. . . .”

“Neither do we,” Pashikov told her. “That’s the whole point.”

“I don’t mean to seem dimwitted, Ilya Sergeiovich, but I do not get the point,” Sonya said. “What does any of this have to do with Red Star?”

Pashikov drummed his fingers on the desktop again. “Red Star may not be officially involved in the negotiations for the Soviet Union’s entry into Common Europe, but as you know, from time to time we are . . . asked to assist with information by various agencies. . . .”

“Like the
KGB
?”

“Not this time,” Pashikov said quickly. “This request comes from the Space Ministry, they are the ones handling the negotiations that will determine the nature and contractual terms for the merger of the Soviet and Common Europe space programs when we enter Common Europe. The negotiations have reached a rather sticky point over budgetary shares, and now . . .
this!
”

“Now
what?
”

“That’s exactly what our negotiators would like to know as quickly as possible!” Pashikov exclaimed.

“Surely that sort of thing is a matter for the
KGB
, not our economic strategy department. . . .”

Pashikov shrugged, and the furtiveness which had evaporated during all this came rushing back. “Ordinarily that would be true,” he said. “But under the circumstances . . .”

“Under what—” Sonya caught herself short.

“Oh,” she said much more quietly.

Ilya Sergeiovich heaved a great sigh of relief. He shrugged again. “To put it delicately,” he said, steepling his fingers, “the Space Ministry has officially requested a report from this department on the matter of Emile Lourade’s sudden ascension, with particular emphasis on any policy changes involved that may affect the negotiations. . . . It has been suggested that . . . you prepare this report personally . . . considering the . . . unique resources at your command. . . .”

He paused, looked down at the desktop, then looked her straight in the eye for the first time during this whole séance. “We
do
understand each other fully, do we not, Sonya Gagarin . . .
Reed?
” he said softly.

Sonya stared right back. “I’m afraid we do, Ilya Sergeiovich Pashikov,” she said in the same tone.

“I cannot order you to do such a thing, Sonya,” Pashikov said
more breezily. “There will be no official repercussions if you refuse, of course, but . . .”

He shrugged yet again, threw up his hands in quite a Gallic gesture. “But speaking as your friend,” he said, “all you are really being asked to do, after all, is report a little family table talk for the good of your country, really just using what you happen to be in a position to know when you write your report, da?”

Sonya continued to stare at him. “And if I do this thing?” she said with a coldness that quite surprised her.

“It will look very good in your kharakteristika, I can promise you that much,” Ilya Sergeiovich Pashikov said, “and that is your superior in the bureaucracy talking. But speaking as your friend, Sonya Ivanovna, we both know how much you need it.”

FIRST HINT OF EXTRATERRESTRIAL
CIVILIZATION?

An official spokesman for the astronomy section of the Soviet Academy of Science downplayed the hasty conclusions leapt to in the popular press over the anomalies reported in observations of the recently discovered fourth planet of Barnard’s star by observers on Cosmograd Copernicus.

“Yes, it definitely is a solid body, not a miniature gas giant, and yes, the nightside glow is clearly from surface sources, and yes, there certainly is a suspiciously regular halo of medium-sized bodies in perfect Geosynchronous Orbit,” said Dr. Pavel Budarkin. “But to announce that we have discovered an extrasolar civilization on such circumstantial evidence would be quite premature at this time.”

—Tass

Emile Lourade’s office was a mess. There were half-unpacked cardboard boxes all over the place, shelves heaped with as-yet-unorganized books, journals, and discs, his desk was piled with more of the same, as were the three chairs before it, and there were half a dozen framed pictures still lying on the conference table waiting to be hung. The new Director of
ESA
sat there in his shirtsleeves with the air of someone who didn’t have the time or inclination to get his office organized before getting down to serious business.

But Jerry grinned when he noticed the one item of personal decoration that Emile had managed to get hung on the wall—a big framed blowup of the lead illustration from the old article in
Esprit
et Espace
which had introduced the Grand Tour Navette to the world all those years ago.

“Sit down, Jerry, sit down,” Emile said, “just throw some stuff on the floor and don’t worry about it.”

Jerry laughed, cleared himself a chair, sat down on it. “So here I am,” Emile Lourade said, with a wry grin and a little shrug. “A long way from the quality-control atelier, n’est-ce pas?”

“A long way from where you were a few weeks ago, is what everyone is saying, Emile,” Jerry told him. “What on earth did you do in Strasbourg?”

“I took the chance of a lifetime, Jerry, I risked everything,” Emile said much more seriously. “And I won.”

“Obviously,” Jerry said dryly, “or Labrenne would have had your ass instead of a sudden attack of ill health. But what the hell did you say to the damned politicians?”

“That I knew the only way to get the Russians to put more money into the merged space budget than they were going to take out for their own projects,” Emile said.

Jerry glanced at the rendering of the Grand Tour Navette that was the only thing hanging on the walls of the new Director’s office, then looked back at Emile Lourade, his spirit soaring.

Emile nodded. “What else?” he said. “As far as the Russians are concerned, Spaceville is just something that allows them to make money at no financial risk by selling us Cosmograd modules and obsolescent old Energia boosters. They think we’re crazy for pumping most of our space budget into the thing, and they certainly want no part of it themselves.”

He shrugged, giving Jerry a wry smile. “And who are we Space Cadets to deny that they have a point?” he said. “The only reason their space people are even talking about a joint budget is that the politicians on both sides are requiring that they cut a deal with us as part of the deal for the Soviet entry into Common Europe. Space is only a small part of something much more important as far as both Moscow and Strasbourg are concerned, and if a deal is not made between our space agencies on its own merits before the treaty is ready for signatures, the politicians will simply force their own terms upon both of us. . . .”

“Politique politicienne,” Jerry muttered.

Emile Lourade frowned. “That was Armand Labrenne’s attitude too,” he said. “And that is why I am here and he is not. One must learn to speak the language of the politicians. And one must also learn to factor their equations.”

A change seemed to come over Emile Lourade, or perhaps it was merely that Jerry was finally recognizing a change that had long since
occurred. For this was not the young Emile who had worked under him; this was the Director of the European Space Agency.

“Labrenne was demanding that the Russians fund 50 percent of a merged space budget,” Lourade said. “This would mean a significant bailout of what Spaceville is costing us. The Russians have been standing firm for 25 percent, meaning that Strasbourg would instead be financing a big piece of their advanced programs. In a few weeks the treaty will be ready, and Strasbourg simply will not allow this minor detail to hold it up. If the Soviets just sit still and stonewall us, they know they will have things more or less their way.”