Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  A waiting functionary hurried forward from inside the Arsenal. “The President is ready to see you, Marshal. In his private office, as you requested.”

  “Good.” Kaminov pointed at Soloviev. “The colonel is my military aide. He’ll accompany me.”

  “Of course, sir.” The bureaucrat’s eyes flicked nervously in Soloviev’s direction. Last-minute additions to presidential meetings were rare. That made this officer someone to be watched. And possibly someone to be feared. He nodded toward the Arsenal’s main door. “If you’ll follow me, gentlemen?”

  The inner office of Russia’s President was a relatively small room more cluttered than decorated. A large marble-topped writing desk, several plush chairs, and a more modem and utilitarian computer desk all competed for the limited floor space on a hand-woven Armenian rug. Thick drapes cloaked a large, arched window overlooking the Arsenal’s inner courtyard. Pictures of the republic’s leader, smiling, white-haired, and boisterous in summit meetings with other heads of state, filled the other three walls.

  Only close examination showed that the room’s current occupant was the same man shown in the photographs. The President was starting to show the tremendous strain involved in governing an almost ungovernable nation. His thick white hair was thinning and his eyes were shadowed and bloodshot. New lines across his broad forehead and around his mouth gave him a haggard, worn appearance.

  “Yuri, it’s good to see you.” The President’s words were more enthusiastic than his tone. He’d had to pay a continuing price to keep Kaminov’s support for his political and economic reforms, and he was a man who disliked owing anybody for anything.

  “Mr. President.” Kaminov gestured toward Soloviev. “I don’t believe you’ve met Colonel Valentin Soloviev.”

  “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” The President paused, visibly searching his memory. His eyes narrowed. “But I have heard many… interesting… things about this young officer. You were ranked first among your class at the Frunze Military Academy, yes?”

  Soloviev shook his head. “Second, Mr. President.” He smiled tightly. “But the man who was first died in Afghanistan. I survived.” He pushed away mental pictures of the dead, the maimed, and burning, broken villages. Years of constant combat, ambush, and atrocity. And all for nothing.

  The President watched him closely, as though waiting for him to say more. Then he nodded in understanding. Few veterans of the Afghan War ever said much about their experiences. All memories of that debacle were bad. He pointed to two chairs in front of his desk. “Sit down, gentlemen. To business, eh?”

  They sat.

  “Now, Marshal, exactly what is so urgent that it could not wait until our next Defense Council meeting?”

  “The fate of our nation, Mr. President,” Kaminov said bluntly. “That is the urgent matter we must discuss. And decide.”

  “Oh?” The President raised a single eyebrow. His hand drifted closer to the phone on his desk. The chief of the general staff was hardly likely to try launching a coup with just one officer by his side. But then stranger things had happened in Russia over the past several years. “Perhaps you’ll explain what you mean by that.”

  “Of course.” Kaminov frowned. “Anyone with his eyes open can see the dangers we face this winter.” He ticked them off one by one on his thick fingers anyway. “Starvation and anarchy in our cities. Chaos and banditry in the countryside. Our farmers hoarding needed food. Our factories idled and rusting away.”

  “All problems we’ve faced before and survived, Yuri. What precisely is your point?”

  “Teeter on the brink long enough, Mr. President, and eventually you’re bound to fall in.” Kaminov leaned forward in his chair. “Things are different this year. For a start, we won’t be getting much more emergency aid from the French or the Germans, and certainly not from the Americans. They’ve got too many problems of their own to do much for us. True?”

  “True.” The President looked troubled. “I’ve spoken to them all. They’re polite enough, God knows, but also empty-handed.”

  “Just so.” Kaminov seemed satisfied by the other man’s admission. “So we can’t beg our way out of these troubles any longer. We must maintain order with our own resources. With all the forces at the state’s disposal.”

  He rapped the desk to hammer home his point. “And yet those forces are falling apart before our very eyes.” He glanced at Soloviev. “You have those reports, Colonel?”

  Soloviev silently opened his briefcase and handed a thick sheaf of papers to his superior.

  Kaminov fanned them out across the desk. “Look at these! Police strikes in St. Petersburg, Volgograd, and Yekaterinburg. Mutinies for higher pay in two motor rifle divisions! Officers murdered by their own men in half a dozen more units!”

  The President brushed the papers back toward the marshal. “I’ve seen the reports, Yuri.”

  Kaminov glowered back at him. “Then you must also realize the need to regain full control over the security forces. And over the railroads and other transportation networks. For our country to survive the coming winter we must take strong action. Action unencumbered by absurd legal niceties.” He paused briefly to let that sink in and then went on. “That is why we insist that you declare an immediate state of emergency.”

  “We, Marshal Kaminov? You and the colonel here? Or are there others supporting this…” The President fumbled for a neutral term. “This proposal of yours?”

  The marshal nodded grimly. “There are others. Many others.” He slid a single-page document across the desk. “You’ll find this document interesting reading, Mr. President. It contains an outline of the measures you must take to maintain order over the next several months. All you have to do is sign it.”

  Soloviev watched the President scan the sheet of paper, racing through its bland phrases for brutal deeds with growing anger. The older man’s hands were shaking by the time he reached the end. A dozen high-ranking officers had already signed at the bottom, including all five commanders in chief of Russia’s armed forces. Kaminov’s preparations had been thorough.

  The President finished reading and looked up. When he spoke, his voice was flat, carefully devoid of any emotion. “And if I don’t approve this plan? If I refuse to declare martial law?”

  Kaminov sat back, clearly confident. “Then I would have to remind you that my loyalties to Mother Russia supersede those to any individual, Mr. President.”

  “I see.” The President’s face darkened. He’d forgotten a basic lesson of power politics. Not all coup d’états were signaled by tanks in the streets. Some were far more subtle. He sighed. The generals had left him with only one real, survivable choice. More important still, he had little doubt that they’d correctly read the public mood. The people were weary of chaos and disorder. They were ready to follow the men on horseback. He reached for a pen.

  For the time being at least, Russia’s fragile experiment with democracy was coming to an end.

  OCTOBER 19 — MINISTRY OF DEFENSE, MOSCOW

  Pavel Sorokin looked like he’d been losing weight in a hurry. He also looked worried and more than a little frightened.

  “Nikolai! Good! You’re finally here.” The bureaucrat forced a lopsided smile as Banich ambled out of the elevator, passing between two unsmiling air force majors who were waiting to get on. “I was afraid you might be late.”

  Banich looked at him curiously. Sorokin had never struck him as being either particularly energetic or a stickler for protocol. Something odd was going on. Something connected with this ridiculous last-minute demand for more deliveries to army installations around Moscow? It seemed likely. “Well, I’m not. What’s up?”

  The Russian shook his head. “There’s no time for that now, Nikolai.” He glanced quickly down at his watch and bit his lip. “Come on, there’s someone you have to meet.”

  Still curious, Banich followed the fat man at a fast walk down the hall. They were moving through parts of the Defense Ministry he’d nev
er seen before. Paintings depicting famous Russian battles hung at regular intervals along the hallway, and high-ranking officers bustled in and out of busy offices. All the uniforms and gold braid made the CIA agent acutely aware that he and the supply manager were the only civilians in sight.

  “This way.” Sorokin led him into an office near the end of the corridor.

  Inside the room, a desk topped by a small personal computer and two telephones guarded the doorway to yet another office. A fresh-faced army lieutenant occupied the chair behind the desk. Other, older officers from different service branches filled chairs lining the walls, each obviously waiting his turn for an appointment.

  Sorokin approached the lieutenant with surprising deference. “Excuse me, sir. Could you please tell the colonel that we’re here? Pavel Sorokin and Nikolai Ushenko? He wanted to see us.”

  The lieutenant eyed him suspiciously, checked his watch and a thick, leather-bound appointment book, and then lifted one of the phones. “Colonel? The supply manager and the merchant you wanted are here.” He listened to the reply, put the phone down, and nodded toward the door. “Go on.”

  Banich went through the door feeling warier than he had for a long while. Maybe he’d grown too used to manipulating puffed-up, greedy administrators like Sorokin. Something told him he was moving into a very different league right now. A much more dangerous league.

  His first glimpse of the man waiting for them confirmed that. The pressures he’d used to bend Sorokin to his will wouldn’t mean spit to this grim-looking bastard.

  “You are the Ukrainian commodities trader, Ushenko?” The colonel’s arrogant tone left little doubt that he expected an answer and expected it immediately. He stayed seated as they came to a halt in front of his desk.

  “Yes, I am.” Banich made a split-second decision and kept his own tone light, almost airily unconcerned. He had to stay in character, and as Ushenko he’d never given a damn about rank or power. “And who the devil are you?”

  He heard Sorokin draw a quick, nervous breath.

  The army officer studied him for a moment with cold gray eyes that looked out from under pale, almost invisible eyebrows. He seemed almost amused. “My name is Colonel Valentin Soloviev, Mr. Ushenko.”

  “And just what can I do for you, Colonel?” Banich glanced to either side, looking for a chair to sit down in. There weren’t any.

  “You can start by explaining this.” Soloviev handed him a piece of paper.

  Banich recognized the New Kiev Trading Company’s letterhead. It was his own politely worded notification that the company could not sell additional food supplies to the Ministry of Defense. He looked up. “I don’t see that there’s anything to explain. You can’t get milk from a dry cow, and I can’t obtain the goods you’re looking for. Certainly not in those quantities. And certainly not at those prices.”

  Pavel Sorokin was sweating now. He mopped his brow and laughed weakly. “Nikolai! Surely you don’t mean that. You’ve always come through for us in the past and…”

  Soloviev cut him off with a single irritated glance. Then he turned his attention back to Banich. “It would be most unwise to try bargaining with me, Mr. Ushenko. I can promise that you would not find it a profitable experience.”

  “Look, Colonel, I’m not interested in haggling with you.” Banich shrugged. “But you’re asking for the impossible. There’s simply not that much food readily available. Not this winter.”

  “I am acquainted with both the market conditions and the weather, Ushenko.” The Russian army officer frowned. “Let me make myself even clearer. We need these extra supplies. We need them delivered over the next several days. And I will obtain them by any means necessary.”

  Banich didn’t try to conceal his confusion. “But why the big rush? Why the need for so much so soon? Why not wait for the spring? Supplies will be up and prices down by March or April, at the latest.”

  “Because we don’t have until the spring!” The colonel’s eyes flashed angrily. He paused. When he spoke again, he sounded like he was rattling off a prepared statement — one that he wasn’t especially interested in. “The government has scheduled an emergency exercise to test its ability to keep order during the coming months. Our part of this readiness exercise involves the rapid rail movement of an additional division to the capital from one of the outlying districts. Once here, the troops will take part in maneuvers designed to evaluate their ability to reinforce the police should the need arise.”

  Soloviev smiled wryly. “Given the current situation, I’m sure you can understand my reluctance to dump thousands of half-starved soldiers on the streets of Moscow. If nothing else, it would mean the end of a career I rather enjoy.”

  Banich felt his brain moving into high gear. Readiness exercise, hell! Nobody, especially not the near-bankrupt Russian government, moved ten to fifteen thousand soldiers around on a whim or for some half-assed riot control practice. The military brass were up to something, all right. He wondered whether any of the republic’s political leaders knew what it was.

  In the meantime, he’d better find a way to meet the army’s demands. Getting shut out now would mean losing a crucial inside track to information on military planning and personnel. He spread his hands in resignation. “Okay, Colonel, you’ve made your point. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Beside him, Pavel Sorokin breathed a huge sigh of not-so-silent relief. It was short-lived.

  “But the price per ton has to come up. I can’t swing the deal for what you’re offering.”

  “No haggling, Ushenko. Remember? You’ll meet our needs and our price, or I’ll make sure you lose your licenses for doing business inside this republic. Clear enough?”

  “Yes.” Banich grimaced. “And just how in God’s name am I supposed to explain this to my bosses? Doing business at a loss, I mean.”

  “Simple.” Soloviev smiled again, looking more than ever like a tiger toying with its prey. “Tell them that you’re buying my continued goodwill.” He nodded toward the door in an abrupt dismissal.

  OCTOBER 21 — NEAR GORKY PARK, MOSCOW

  In the first hour after sunrise, Russia’s capital city lay wrapped in a deep, deceptively peaceful silence.

  Erin McKenna ran southward beside the gray-tinted Moskva River, long legs eating up distance with every easy stride. Her long auburn hair streamed out behind her, tied into a bobbing ponytail with a length of black ribbon. There weren’t any other people in sight. For the moment at least, she moved alone in splendid isolation.

  She shook her head irritably as the watch on her wrist chimed suddenly in an unwelcome reminder. It was time to head back for the start of another working day. She turned left, circling deeper into Gorky Park.

  Fallen leaves in rich autumn colors littered the park’s winding paths and lay heaped below bare-limbed trees. For the first time in weeks, the sky overhead was a deep cloudless blue, although temperatures still hovered near the freezing mark. Despite the pale sunshine, the tree-covered grounds were completely deserted. Few of Moscow’s hungry citizens had the time or physical energy for jogging during these hard times.

  Erin hoped she would never find herself in the same state. Running recharged her mind. It helped her clear away the cobwebs accumulated by hours spent reading densely written reports or searching through packed computer data bases. It also gave her time to herself — time she’d always treasured. Time for her own thoughts, or time for her mind to go blank, absorbed by the comforting rhythm of her legs covering ground at high speed. She’d proven her ability and competitive edge by winning a string of long-distance medals in high school and college. Now she ran for pure pleasure.

  Not that she’d had much pleasure lately.

  So far her assignment to the CIA’s Moscow Station had been one big bust. Despite their best efforts, Banich’s field operatives were still only able to gather the information she needed in dribs and drabs — small nuggets of fact and fancy that were barely worth analyzing and not worth reporting bac
k to Washington. Her own moves to make contacts in the city’s foreign business community were going somewhat better, but they were still painfully slow. She couldn’t push too hard without raising unnecessary suspicions among the businessmen and women who managed Western trade with Russia and the other Commonwealth republics.

  And now both Alex Banich and Len Kutner were busy with some hush-hush project of their own. For the past two days, they’d been closeted together in one of the embassy’s secure sections — emerging only long enough to send coded reports to Washington or to grab a quick bite in the staff canteen. The field agents who’d been working with her were being sent away on other rushed assignments. Something big was happening. And they’d shut her out of whatever it was.

  Just the thought of that made her angry. She was tired of being labeled an amateur, interfering busybody. Her security clearances were just as good as Banich’s, and it was past time that he and his people started treating her like a full partner. She frowned at her thoughts. Winning his respect wouldn’t be easy. Not when they could only seem to agree on two things. One was that Moscow was the capital of Russia. The other was that most politicians needed help to tie their own shoes.

  Erin pushed down the beginnings of a smile as she considered that last point of agreement. She’d developed her own cynical attitude toward Washington’s pontificating power brokers during a stint as an analyst for the Senate Commerce Committee. Too many senators who preached about their devotion to equal rights by day tried to grope their female staffers by night. Fending off their unwanted advances had been far more difficult than doing her assigned work. She suspected that Banich’s disdain for politicians had a very different origin.