by Tom Clancy
Vostov turned away from the two women and dropped his voice a notch.
“Look, I don’t give a damn about them,” he said. “Regardless of what you’re trying to imply, my part in this is done. You want me to call our friend, see what’s going on with him, I’ll do it. But as a favor, not an obligation, you understand?”
Teng paused.
“Yes,” he said finally, his tone still soft. “Although you should remember the search for truth can be steered back on course as easily as it was diverted.”
Vostov’s gut pulled in. These Asians made him edgy with their elliptical ways. “Meaning what, exactly?”
“You need to reexamine your interests, my friend. It would be unfortunate if they suddenly came into collision with my own. The backers you so casually dismiss have a long reach, and an even longer memory for holding grudges.”
Vostov felt his stomach tighten a little more. There was a sharp burning sensation in the center of it. Damn, he thought. His ulcers hadn’t acted up like this for ages.
He tossed a glance over his shoulder at Svieta and Nadia. They were still whispering and tittering and seemed to be paying him no attention.
Desire was a precarious and fickle sort of thing, he reflected. It could pull a man from the filthiest gutter to the top of the world, then push him right over into the abyss.
“I’ll call our friend right now,” he said, and pushed the Disconnect button on the phone.
Nadia moved closer to him then, hoping to distract him from the business of business, and refocus his attention on the business of pleasure. “Soon,” he said as he pushed her roughly away. “As soon as I finish dealing with this lamentable mess.” Then he turned his attention back to the phone. It rang—on the minister’s private line, so no secretary would remember the call. Five rings, and then he heard an irritated greeting. He responded in kind.
“Hello, Mr. Minister,” he said.
“Vostov? Are you insane, calling me at my office?”
“I’ll make it brief.”
“That isn’t the point. This connection isn’t secure—”
“Listen to me, Minister. I don’t like politics, and I’m beginning to regret having gotten tangled up in this business. But men have to live with their choices.”
“Would you quit sounding philosophical, and come to the point? And remember, we’re possibly not alone here.”
“Fine, then. I’m going to give you some advice,” Vostov said. “Do whatever you want with it, but I suggest you at least pay attention.”
“All right, all right. What is it?”
“Our associate abroad feels he’s being neglected at your end. He says—”
“The man is no associate of mine. Merely a mover of goods, who is in turn moved by others.”
“Whatever. You’ve been dodging his calls, or so he claims. And I think it’s important that you talk to him.”
“Vostov, can’t you see I’m trying to lay some groundwork here? I don’t have to jump at his whim. If he thinks he can have carte blanche with my time now, I can only imagine his future impositions. And those of his shadow masters.”
“Talk to him, Minister. Pacify him. I don’t want the man on my back.”
“And I don’t like the idea of him playing us against each other. He’ll wait until I’m ready to speak to him, and he can fuck himself in the meantime.”
“Look, you must understand that he’s capable of turning this whole damn thing on its head—”
“We have enough to occupy our minds without being concerned with him. 1 have intelligence about that American operation in Kaliningrad. Something may be going on there that could spell trouble, although I don’t know precisely what it is. We must be prepared to take quick action should the need arise. I think, under these circumstances, it’s time for you to make yourself useful.”
“That’s not my business. I’ve already done—”
“You’ll do more. I’ll require supplies. Equipment. Perhaps even manpower. Don’t make the error of thinking you can wash your hands of this now.”
“Fucking politics. As I said before, I never should have let myself become involved in it.”
“One can’t help but be, Vostov. Life is politics. From the time we’re children competing with our siblings for our parents’ attention, trying to outgrab one another for what we desire. I’m convinced that’s when the betrayals begin. The family is a Judas circle, the brother we love is our enemy, eh?”
“I don’t know. You’re losing me.”
“Am I? Well, just don’t forget you were on that boat in Khabarovsk.”
“Is that everything?” Vostov inquired with some sarcasm.
“No. 1 need you to utilize your many contacts, as much as I may despise them. It seems that it’s time to cloud the landscape a bit. There are factions out there that might very well share our common goal. I think it would be wise to turn the bright light of public scrutiny on them.”
“What do you mean?” Vostov asked.
“The nationalists, the separatists, the Communists, and the reformers all have an interest in blocking foreign aid. I believe it’s time that someone pointed this out to them, hmm? And the military and the KGB, unfairly squeezed out from distributing the largesse of our enemies—and so prevented from raking off their percentage from the top. Don’t you think someone should ask them how they feel about this and what they plan to do about it? Even the church and organized crime have something at stake here. My dear Vostov, the more pressure Starinov and the West are under, the sooner we’ll achieve our ultimate goals. Your tentacles reach everywhere. I think that you should use them.”
“What you’re asking—” Vostov spluttered, “it’s hardly the work of a few moments.”
“Then I’d suggest you get started immediately. Remember, Vostov, a man who won’t make himself useful is a man who is expendable. Now is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”
“You haven’t given me an answer on the matter I called you about. The mover of goods, as you called him—”
“I said he can go fuck himself! From here on in, I will deal only with his superiors, and only when it suits me. And if you don’t come through for me, Vostov, the same will apply to you. If you’re around at all. Now good-bye, Vostov. See that you’re ready when I need you.”
“Wait, don’t hang up. Hello? Are you still there? Goddamn it, are you still there? Hello, hello, hello ... ?” A dial tone emerged clearly from the phone in his hand. He threw it across the room.
“Damn.”
A slight sound drew his attention back to the women, now huddled in the corner and looking slightly fearful.
“Well, what are you two staring at? Get over here and make yourselves useful.” That was the phrase the man on the phone had used. Useful! He sat down and waited. As they approached him hesitantly, he shut his eyes. Politics. It was a dirty business. There were other activities he much preferred.
TWENTY-THREE
WASHINGTON, D.C. JANUARY 6, 2000
WEARING A GRAY SWEATSUIT, A BALTIMORE ORIOLES baseball cap, and Nikes, Alex Nordstrum jogged west through the Mall, a look of quiet concentration on his features as his long legs carried him over the path with unbroken rhythm. He was past the midway point of his run and his blood felt pumped with oxygen and the muscles of his thighs and calves were pleasantly loose.
Arms moving in smooth coordination with his feet, he ran on toward Constitution Gardens and the conspicuous marble shaft of the Washington Monument, where he would ordinarily swing back east to complete his regular two-mile circuit. Today he might have to wait around a bit, depending on whether Blake was on time ... which Nordstrum doubted would be his good fortune, considering the assistant secretary of state, Foreign Affairs Bureau, was someone whose internal clock had seemed to have its workings irreparably gummed up even when he was Alex’s top poli-sci student at Georgetown.
Nordstrum trotted along at an easy pace, seeing no reason to hurry. North of the park, the massive cluste
r of Federal Triangle buildings extended continuously to Fifteenth Street, their red rooftops visible through the winter-bare treetops. To the south, Nordstrum could see the white colonnades and porticoes of the Department of Agriculture Building. Vapor puffed from his mouth with each measured breath but his metabolism was up and he was hardly aware of the cold Potomac gusts snapping moisture off his cheeks and forehead. The back of his sweatshirt was dark with perspiration between his shoulder blades, a good, healthy sweat, the kind that always seemed to wash the tension from his pores.
To his right, well-dressed men and women swept past in expensive cars, most turning north or south on Seventeenth Street for the downtown museums and government buildings, a smaller percentage of the traffic continuing past the Reflecting Pool to where Constitution Avenue became Route 66 and spooled on out across the bridge to Arlington. Maybe a mile behind Nordstrum, morning sunlight fanned over the Capitol dome in golden spokes that had already begun to glance off the red brick turrets of Smithsonian Castle. In the broad stretch of landscaping he’d covered on his way down the Hill, walkers and joggers were strung out along the paths at various stages of their exercise routines, squirrels and pigeons were squabbling over sparse winter pickings, and vacationing college kids dressed in goose-down jackets and long elf-like knit caps were strolling toward the small round skating rink next to the Museum of Natural History, carrying their ice skates over their shoulders by the laces. The kids seemed about as traumatized as the squirrels and birds by what had happened in Times Square just one week before, which was not at all.
The resilience of youth? Nordstrum wondered. Or perhaps the inurement of a generation that had been born in an era when terrorism was an ever-present threat, something on a par with environmental calamities like earthquakes and hurricanes? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and could only hope it was the former. For him, anyway, the grandeur of the Capitol was always enough to fill his head with refrains of “Stars and Stripes” and rouse a tremendous sense of obligation to his adopted country.
He reached Fourteenth Street, jogged in place while waiting for a break in the flow of traffic, then crossed out of the Mall proper onto the monument grounds, where the lawn began its gentle rise to the base of the towering obelisk.
He had started up the knoll when he heard the slapping of feet against the pavement behind him, and looked back to see Neil Blake following only a few yards downhill. An athletic man of thirty-five with handsome features and longish—for Washington—brown hair, he was wearing a black Speedo running suit with an electric blue stripe down the side, looking exactly like what he was, a member of the smart and spirited power elite.
“Neil,” Nordstrom said, slowing a little, “how long have you been stalking me?”
Blake nodded his head back toward Fourteenth Street. “I came in from over by the Ellipse, saw you crossing the road,” he said. “I’d’ve caught up to you sooner, but there was a nice young lady on the path who needed directions, and I sort of had to stop. Besides, I thought I’d let you get in a few extra minutes of peaceful exercise.”
“Such a considerate fellow,” Nordstrum said. “Did you take her phone number? In case she needs more help getting around.”
Blake patted his pocket.
“It’s already tucked away in a safe place,” he said.
Nordstrum smiled. They ran side by side awhile in silence, cresting the knoll and then heading down toward the Reflecting Pool. The water sparkled in the morning light.
“I’ve got something for you,” Blake said. “It wasn’t easy. Anyone finds out I leaked it, I can open up that bagel joint my cousin Steve in Chicago always wanted me to go in on.”
Nordstrum nodded but said nothing.
“You know the Lian Group?” Blake said.
“Of course.”
“They made the goods,” Blake said.
Nordstrum nodded again. His face was serious and thoughtful.
“What about the end purchaser?” he asked.
“The trail leads to a Russian distributor. After that, it’s an open question.”
There was a long pause.
“Crap,” Nordstrum said finally, shaking his head.
“I didn’t figure you’d like my news much,” Blake said.
Nordstrum was quiet another moment.
“Is that all of it?” he said.
“So far, yeah,” Blake said. “I’ll let you know if I dig up anything more.”
“Thanks,” Nordstrum said. “I’m glad I gave you an A in class.”
“I earned it,” Blake said.
Nordstrum looked over at him.
“Insolent pup,” he said.
“It’s looking more and more as if you were right the other day, Gord,” Nordstrum said into his telephone.
Freshly showered and wrapped in a bathrobe, he was back in his Pennsylvania Avenue townhouse after his jog, and had just gotten through telling Gordian what he’d learned from Blake.
“I’m almost wishing I’d been wrong,” Gordian said. “This Lian Group ... I’ve heard of it before. Didn’t the name come up in the Thompson campaign finance hearings a few years ago?”
“Right again,” Nordstrum said. “The evidence that it was involved in funneling Chinese government funds into our election wasn’t as conclusive as it was for Lippo, among other foreign contributors ... but it was strong nonetheless. In my opinion, Lian money gave at least two senators a considerable edge against their opponents, and may very likely have won them their seats.”
“I’m still pretty much with Megan insofar as being confused. What’s the connection between Lian and the Russians? And specifically which Russians?”
Nordstrum sat forward on his living room sofa, absently winding the telephone wire around his fingers.
“The best I can do is speculate,” he said. “I mean, I’d need to look into my files, do some research, before I could expect you to bank on this information.”
“Go ahead, I understand.”
“There are circumstances that would point toward Russia’s Agricultural Minister, Yeni Bashkir, being knee-deep in this affair. He and Lian have a long relationship. As do members of the Chinese regime and Bashkir. Also, Bashkir’s family held commercial interests throughout Asia until after the Bolshevik Revolution.”
“And his motive?”
“Bashkir’s hardly an Americanophile ... is that the proper term?”
“I’m not sure,” Gordian said, “but the meaning’s clear enough.”
“Be that as it may, he distrusts capitalism and democracy, and like many in his generation would have preferred to save the old Communist system by fiddling with it, rather than see it dismantled. Also, while not an extreme nationalist in the Pedachenko vein, he’s unquestionably something of a cultural chauvinist.”
“So you’re saying he might have wanted to disrupt Starinov’s pro-U.S. initiatives, make him look ineffectual.”
“In essence, agreeing with what you suggested at our meeting,” Nordstum said. He realized he’d gotten his phone cord hopelessly tangled and worked to extract his fingers.
Gordian sighed at the other end of the line.
“Doesn’t the fact that Bashkir helped negotiate the assistance package undermine our hypothesis?” he said. “Look at any photo of Starinov when he was at the White House back in October, you’ll see the minister at his side.”
Nordstrum made a sound in his throat that was the verbal equivalent of a shrug.
“Gord, I know you’re a glass half-full sort of person. But you’re as aware as I am that Russian politics hasn’t come very far from the imperial courts of Catherine or Nicholas II. There’s a long, cherished tradition of back-stabbing intrigue in the capital, whether you’re talking about modern-day Moscow or St. Petersburg in the nineteenth century.”
There was a brief silence. Nordstrum struggled to untangle the knotted up wire, letting his friend think.
“Okay,” Gordian said finally. “Can you put together a brief for Nimec, get it
to him via e-mail by tonight?”
“Might be a bit thin on detail ... but yes, I can do it.”
“Send copies to Blackburn and Megan in Kaliningrad. And to Vince Scull, for that matter. Let’s see what our combined brain trust can accomplish.”
“Right,” Nordstrum said. He was getting hungry for breakfast. “Anything else?”
“Only one small favor.”
“Shoot.”
“You ought to work on that habit of playing with the telephone wire while you’re talking, or at least get a cordless,” Gordian said. “I’m hearing all kinds of static here at my end.”
Nordstrum frowned.
“For you, boss, I’ll certainly do my best,” he said.
TWENTY-FOUR
SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA JANUARY 7, 2000
A FEW MOMENTS PAST ELEVEN O’CLOCK AT NIGHT, Pete Nimec sat at his laptop computer in his home office, his face a study in concentration as he read the e-mail that had just appeared on its display regarding Gordian’s ongoing investigation into the events in Russia, code-named “Politika”:
Status: Reply 1 of 1, 3 attachments (PEM Sign and Encrypt)
Re: “Politika”
>Pete,
>It’s 2 A.M. here in D.C., but I wanted to
>complete and upload the data files you
>requested before hitting the sack.
>Knowing you as well as I do, you’re
>probably online looking for them right now,
>and won’t be able to tear yourself away from
>the damn machine until they’ve popped into
>your mailbox. So here they are—a bit on the
>sketchy side, but the best I could do on short
>notice. I suggest you give the material a
>quick review and relax. It’s already much too
>late for me to get a decent night’s sleep, but
