The Fourth Rome (15 page)

Matsak’s lips twitched and he flipped open his briefcase with a practiced gesture, balancing the case against his hip as he
stashed the carton within.

“Have one of mine,” Grainger said, seeing that Matsak wasn’t going to crack that carton in public. He hadn’t smoked since
he was a kid on Sunrise Terrace. He held out the pack.

Matsak said, “Let us get a coffee to go with it.”

“An espresso would be great, if we can find a place to serve it.”

“Express? I suppose they will serve it wherever you want,” Matsak said and, lighting his cigarette in hands cupped against
a nonexistent wind, led the way to the front restaurant. There, dinner was being served in elegant style with pink linens
and crystal. Matsak strode up to the maître d’, spoke quietly, and personnel scrambled to accommodate them.

When they were seated, a tray was wheeled up containing a teapot, coffeepot, chocolate pot, condiments, and cakes.

“Express?”
Matsak said with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“Espresso? Sure, please,” Tim Grainger replied. He was absolutely sure now that Matsak was wired like a radar trawler. “What
about your driver? And the scientists? They’re waiting for us.”

Matsak sprawled back in long, spidery indolence, cigarette in one hand, espresso cup in the other. “
Express
without a cigarette is like sex with a condom.” He sighed, puffed, and sipped. “As for who waits … The driver—is a driver.
So what if he waits? Only Americans worry about these things. My scientists, they have been waiting for years to talk to someone
who could even
ask
such questions as you are asking. I suppose they will wait until we are ready. Tell me more about what you wish to find.”
At the other end of the room, a violinist began to play softly.

Tim Grainger knew he’d now pierced the veil. This was the real Russia. As Churchill had said, Russia was like dogs fighting
under a blanket. Maybe Matsak was going to pull off the blanket, maybe not. But he knew each dog beneath it by name and fighting
form.

“Concretne stoh?”
Concretely, what? Tim’s long unused Russian was beginning to stir. “There’s a problem we’re facing which we can’t solve with
US technology. We’ve heard that some Russian scientists are working on temporal alignment. Maybe it’s involving scalar waves
and Maxwell’s field equations. Maybe it’s using psychotronic research somehow. I’m not a technology snob. We’ll crack this
nut any way we can, conventionally or unconventionally. And I’m not the technical expert on this trip. That’s our other team
member, an Oriental-American named Chun Quo. She’s at another meeting right now but I’ll get her if you wish.”

“Nyet, nyet, nyet.
Don’t get her. If you say me she is meeting with other Russians, let her pursue that path independently.” His flat, angry
coldness returned. “In my opinion, I suppose she will not find this group of scientists through any other channel. But it
is unfortunate that she is asking. It draws unhelpful attention.”

“I thought,” said Grainger, putting his pack of opened cigarettes on the table so that Matsak could chain-smoke if he wished,
“that whatever problem one group was working, others were also working, as a methodology here.”

“Maybe this is so in some parts of our technical establishment. But I am not so sure about such a method with this technology.
This is closed city technology. A closed city is a science city. No one there is … average. The closed city network will outlast
all upheavals of our state’s shape and form. It still spans the former Soviet Union. And in it, our best scientists are working
in concentrated groups and secluded situations on…special projects.”

“Working for how long? What I’m looking for is relatively mature. At the stage of fieldable systems, or at least hardened
prototypes.” If what Grainger was looking for was really in a closed city, as Central had predicted, that didn’t necessarily
mean that only one group was working on it, but might mean that a relatively mature project was ongoing. Whatever project
Matsak had in mind might just be advanced enough to cause the kind of problem Central was trying to preempt.

Matsak’s answer was evasive. “Working for lifetimes, I suppose. They raise their children there. They go to school there.
If your intelligence is great enough to allow you to reside in a closed city, life is…still good.” He waved his hand and a
long ash spilled to the floor. “We may go to one. Tonight if you wish. I have already arranged for the official invitation
for your visit. It is a few hours drive from Moscow, nothing more. Do you wish it?”

“Hell, yes,” Grainger said. Without an official invitation, even Matsak probably couldn’t have arranged this visit. Without
an invitation, any visit would have to be kept too far off the record to be sustainable.

Matsak took another cigarette. “You are not smoking,” he observed.

Anything for God and continuum. Grainger picked up a Marlboro and lit it, dragging cautiously. His head spun. Every hair on
his body stood on end. Years of abstinence hadn’t diminished old desires. He knew after that one drag that he was lost, that
he’d be happy to match Matsak cigarette for cigarette, despite the fact that Central would put him in detox as soon as he
got back there.

Grainger must have closed his eyes. When he focused again, Matsak was signing the check.

“You’re my guest,” Grainger protested. The waiter with the initialed check scurried away.

“Please, do you see currency changing hands here? When I am in your milieu, you will be my host. Here, it is my duty. Now
you will tell me just whom your colleagues have contacted. I must assess the damage.”

Only then did Grainger remember that Nan Roebeck was alone in a meeting with Orlov. “Sergey Orlov of the Foreign Ministry…”

Matsak winced elaborately and shook his head. “So sorry, Tim Grainger. This is a bad miscalculation. Now that your friend
is in the hands of the Foreign Ministry, we should leave her there. No one trusts them from the Yeltsin government. They are
outsiders, Gorbachev holdovers, trying to use foreigners to secure their jobs and regain lost power. If Yeltsin were stronger,
he would fire them all in one day, call them back to Moscow, and have them shot. But, of course, we don’t do such things anymore.
Not since we have new senior officials who were just yesterday boys standing on top of tanks waving flags.” He waved his cigarette
to illustrate. “In my opinion, these Foreign Ministry officials are the enemies of revolution. You should tell your friend
not to trust the hardliners. All that has changed with them is the names of their jobs, not their offices, not their tactics,
not their hearts.”

“Great. I’ll be sure to tell her.”

“Say me who else you have contacted.”

Matsak might be planning a little coup against possible rivals, but you had to play along. None of the locals meant anything
to Grainger. And he had to go with his instinct. “Viktor Etkin, of the Min—”

“Ha! Etkin!” Now Matsak looked at Grainger pityingly and stroked his beard. “KGB. Very good. Very smart. Typical American
efficiency. How do you say, spook to spook cultural exchange? The security service will take care of problems from the Foreign
Ministry, at least. You will go ask your friends not to mention in their meetings that you are meeting with us as well, or
else to conclude those meetings by telling other Russians you will meet only with us henceforth. I will wait here for you.
I have everything I need.” He shook another cigarette from the pack although he had one lit and burning in the ashtray. “Confer
with your colleagues. When you have a decision on how to proceed, we will go see the technology.”

Quid pro quo. Lucky that Russians were hive-mind sort of folks, who expected decisions to be at least ratified by groups.

“I’ll go talk to my people, then.” Grainger stood to go. “Should I get some roubles, for the trip?”

“Roubles?
You want roubles?” Matsak’s bearded upper lip curled. “I have thousand of millions of roubles. I need this many to pay for
lunch. I have a man who follows me around with a briefcase full of roubles and stays behind to count them out to pay the luncheon
bill. Sometimes it takes half an hour to count the total.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of roubles. On
top was a thousand-rouble note. “Here. Take it. You can tip the chambermaids with it.”

Grainger was embarrassed. And despite himself, he was impressed by Matsak’s candor, his wry sense of humor, and his pragmatic
approach to his country’s problems. Grainger took the roubles. He dared not offend this proud man.

“Spacebo.“
Thank you. And: “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back with that decision.”

He found Chun where he’d left her, bleary-eyed and drunker than he’d have liked. Etkin was holding her hand in his. Classical
balalaika music was playing somewhere and a few couples were dancing slowly, hardly moving, swaying in place.

“Chun, I need to see you alone for a minute,” Grainger said without ceremony.

“Viktor Ivanovitch, you must excuse me,” she muttered thickly, stumbling over her gearbag as she rose.

“Seen Roebeck?” he asked. His eyeballs felt as if they were pulsing. His mouth was dry. His arm hurt. Damned shots. He grabbed
Chun’s gearbag from the floor by her chair and thrust it at her.

“Not since you two left us,” Chun said, slinging the bag over her shoulder insouciantly.

Grainger took her by the hand and pulled her a short distance away. “Ditch that guy. We’ve got an invitation to a closed city
to see relevant technology. And my guy doesn’t want you dealing with anybody else.”

“No Russian wants you dealing with anybody else,” Chun said, brushing black hair out of her eyes. “I’m making good progress.
Tell your friend we’ll deal with whomever we choose. And as for a closed city trip—that’s fine with me. Just check with Nan.
What time tomorrow?”

“You don’t get it. Now. Bus is leaving. Be on it or stay behind. As a matter of fart, given that you’re not exactly sober,
maybe you ought to stay behind and sleep it off with Son of Ivan over there.”

“Tim, stuff it. You need me for any serious evaluation and you know it.”

“My guy won’t take you if you’re interacting with the KGB, there.”

“Okay, fine. Whatever Nan decides. But I think I’m onto something here.”

Grainger was exasperated. “We brought you to evaluate critical technology, not seduction techniques of a vanished civilization.
Russians like parity, remember. You’re our best technologist.”

“You said it—vanished civilization. I didn’t. Your grasp of technology’s good enough for this closed city junket, as far as
I’m concerned. Anyway, it’s up to Roebeck. Not to either of us.”

“Great. Good. You stay right here, then, until I find her.”

“I had no intention of going anywhere,” Chun said sweetly.

Grainger slapped left-handed at a plastered column, hard, on his way out of the bar. His whole arm pulsed from the concussion
and the injection he’d taken.

Where the hell could Nan Roebeck be?

He checked everywhere: the lobby, the beautiful main dining room where the harpist had played, even—against all protocols
of the era—the ladies’ toilet.

She wasn’t anywhere.

Don’t leave the hotel without us for any reason,
Roebeck had decreed during the planning session.

Only then did he think to call her room.

He hoped to hell she wasn’t up in her room with Orlov, beating Chun to the punch. Then he hoped she didn’t answer the house
phone.

But she did.

“What the hell are you doing up there?” he nearly snarled at her when she said hello.

“What the hell do you mean, talking to me like that, mister? I’m having a meeting.”

“With your shoes on, I hope.”

“Excuse me? I’ll forget I heard that. What’s the problem, Tim?”

“Permission to leave the hotel requested on a priority basis.” He didn’t feel well. Roebeck was really angry at him now. He
couldn’t cope with Chun and Roebeck and the Russians as well. He didn’t want to take either woman along. They’d second-guess
him all night long and blow his rapport with his target. “By myself if possible. With you if necessary. Not with Chun.”

“Why? And it better be a damned good reason. Nothing justifies your behavior tonight, mister!”

“I need to talk to you, now. In person. Not on any phone. And I don’t want to come to your room if you’ve got company. This
can’t wait.”

“Where’s Chun? We’re just getting started here.”

“She’s pretty far along with lover boy in the bar and doesn’t intend to take direction from me. I have a proposition from
my guy for you. And I need clear direction about who does what in the next few hours.”

“I’ll be right down.” Roebeck slammed the phone down.

Grainger waited by the elevators. When she came out, he grabbed her by the strap on her gearbag and pushed her back against
the wall.

Leaning over her, one hand on the wall beside her head, he made as if to nuzzle her neck. “We’ve got an offer to go technology
shopping in a closed city tonight—now. Chun doesn’t want to go. The offer’s contingent upon our choice of two options. Option
one is breaking off other meetings with alternate technology channels and saying we’re using my guy exclusively—then everybody
who’s up to it goes to the closed city tonight. Option two is you both keep meeting with your guys, don’t mention anything
about my guy, and only I go to the closed city tonight. What’s your pleasure, boss?”

“What’s Chun want to do?”

“Chun’s falling in love. She wants to sleep with the poster boy. Or she’s too drunk to know what she wants. She says I don’t
need her to look at this primitive tech base, but she’ll do what you say. So she’s not blind drunk. Just drunker than I like.”

Roebeck dosed her eyes and blew out a deep breath. Then she opened them and looked at him analytically. “How come all these
demands?”

“Maybe I’ve got the right tiger by the tail. He got people out of bed. I listened while he kicked ass. I didn’t get all the
words but I got enough. He says he’s the only channel to what we want. He says mixing other channels will just make it harder—maybe
impossible—to cut a deal. They’ll start fighting among themselves. He says you especially don’t want to be involved with the
Foreign Ministry—the Yeltsin government hates them and distrusts them. The distrust extends to anybody dealing with them.
They’re all Gorbachev holdovers, hard-liners, due for early retirement. I think he doesn’t need to lie to me. I think I want
to go with him. You’re the boss, but I’m asking that you at least protect my association with him and let me go. If you want
everybody to go, that’s fine, too—under his rules. But I don’t want to fuck with this guy. It’s his ball, his court. If we
play his game, we’ve got to play it his way.” Stripping proper names from targets was second nature to them both at a time
like this.