The shadow war

by Glen Scott Allen

He tapped with the chalk. "This Strategy Number One. Stalin's strategy. Basically, is start war, if anything go wrong, blow up world. But then, thanks god, Stalin dies, Khrushchev comes. Little more sense than Stalin. So," he erased the #1 with the cuff of his sweater, wrote #2, "we get strategija #2. Put missiles in Cuba. Big SS-4s, even bigger SS-5s. Spook Kennedy. Great idea."

  He turned and faced Benjamin. "Only not so great idea. Kennedy not spooked. Why?" Anton smiled at him, a bright twinkle in his eye.

  "Kennedy tells everyone, big missile gap, Russians have thousand missiles. Ha!" Under the circle he wrote two numbers: 3,000 and 300. He tapped the 3,000. "This is how many bombs U.S. has." He tapped the 300. "This how many bombs USSR has." He looked at Benjamin. "As kids say, do the math."

  "So," Benjamin said, "the whole missile gap scare-"

  "Big hooey," said Anton. "Cuba episode spooks somebody, yes. Spooks Soviets. And," he held up a finger, "Soviets spook themselves. Khrushchev sends four submarines, new Foxtrots, to Cuba. Each has nuclear torpedo. U.S. Navy sits on them, like hen on egg. One Soviet captain gets nervous, damn near shoots big fish at U.S. Navy boat."

  "How could he have the authority to do that?"

  "Ah," said Anton. He pointed to the SIOP circle. "In U.S. plan, president controls everything, even submarines. But," he pointed to the strategija circle, "in Soviet plan, tell submarine captains, you decide whether blow up world or not. And good luck."

  He turned and looked at Benjamin, frowning. "Big problem, yes? So," again he erased the number next to strategija, and now wrote in 55, "something change. After Cuba, new strategy. New launch codes, all controlled by Moscow."

  Benjamin thought of two questions, asked the first. "But why fifty-five? Why not Strategy Number Three?"

  Anton laughed. "Old Soviet joke. In Red Army after Revolution, every officer responsible for his own pistol. All pistols numbered. So, Cheka-Secret Police-line up officers. Ask first one, 'What number pistol?' Officer answers, '23.' Cheka man looks, number should be 32. So bang, shoots officer. Asks next one, 'What number pistol?' Officer says, '34.' Cheka man looks, number should be 43. Bang, shoots again. Asks third officer, 'And what number your pistol?' '55,' he says." Anton smiled. "Get it? Number can't be wrong."

  "So," Benjamin said, "this strategy 55, it's a joke?"

  "Not joke," said Anton. "But not real, either. Nobody sees it. It's a privedenie, a ghost."

  "Okay, here's my second question," said Benjamin, "and maybe it's dumb, because I don't know Russian. But the name of the file on Fletcher's computer is Stzenariy 55, not Strategija 55. And Samuel said he thought stzenariy meant 'script,' not 'strategy.' "

  Anton smiled very broadly. "Samuel right," he said. "Means 'script,' like for movie. Screenplay you call it?" Benjamin nodded. "Very dramatic word. Very… artistic word. And therefore very interesting word. Is KGB-type word."

  "I don't see the-"

  "KGB guys consider themselves not soldiers, not apparatchiks. Great spies. Great artistes. Tend to use such words."

  "So that name indicates the plan originated with the KGB?"

  Anton nodded, made his way to the armchair, sat down again, exhaled.

  "Anyway, whether is strategija or stzenariy, nobody ever see this number 55. Only rumors, then nothing. Instead get Strategija Chetyre, number four. But strange, is not much strategy. Mostly propaganda and nonsense." Anton held up a finger. " And something else. Americans think 1963 and Cuba closest world comes to big bang, yes? Not so. Was 1968."

  "What happened in 1968?" Benjamin asked.

  "You don't remember so-called Prague Spring?" Anton asked, looking surprised. Then he answered his own question. "No, too young. Anyway, Czechs rebel, Soviets send in tanks. Everybody in Soviet Union thinks NATO will invade, help rebels. Sit with fingers on buttons for two weeks. But, pfft, big nothing happens. Except one small something."

  Anton tapped at the keyboard again, opened the file labeled "Stzenariy 55."

  Borba s tenyu appeared on the screen.

  "Yes, we saw that," said Benjamin. "But Samuel had no idea what it meant."

  "Click on it," instructed Anton.

  Benjamin reached forward, clicked on the text.

  A small black border appeared around the phrase.

  "It's an image," said Benjamin, "not text."

  "Exactly so. Now make bigger."

  "How much bigger?" asked Benjamin.

  "Much bigger."

  Benjamin shrugged, enlarged the image several hundred percent.

  What had been the black blocks of text revolved themselves into long columns of numbers and letters. Benjamin saw each column was eight figures wide.

  "What on earth…"

  "Is octal code," said Anton. "Code computer uses for letters and numbers. Fletcher scanned letter into computer, converted words to octal, hid code in picture."

  "Letter? What letter?"

  "Letter from Fyodor Myorkin."

  "My god," said Benjamin. "Are you able to read this?"

  "Kids don't know octal these days. Don't need to. But Anton very old," he smiled, "so, yes, I can read.

  "Fletcher writes Myorkin because Myorkin wrote about Cold War years, exposed secrets. Made many enemies. Anyway, Fletcher asked him, ever heard anything about something in sixties, in Siberia, something… stranno, strange? Myorkin writes back, yes, found something in KGB archives in St. Petersburg. About place called Uzhur-4 and something called Stzenariy 55. After Prague Spring, KGB all over the place. People arrested, officers reassigned. Big panic. Myorkin says he will go back to archives next week, but first wants to interview one of few officers from Uzhur-4 still alive. And officer's name interesting, I think. Kapitan Nikolai Orlov."

  "Orlov?" Benjamin thought. "Why does that sound…"

  "Female version Orlova. Like, for daughter."

  "N. Orlova, at the RCC," said Benjamin. "Then it's a woman. And she's somehow connected to this Stzenariy 55, which is somehow connected to the 'wobble' TEACUP found in the Cold War, which the Gadenhower data somehow convinced Fletcher is all part of some enormous conspiracy?"

  "Now you understand," Anton said with a mischieveous grin, "why I keep saying, is all maybe."

  Benjamin leaned back in the chair. He was still processing much of what Anton had told him. He realized he had reached a point where he didn't even know the right questions to ask anymore.

  He looked over his shoulder out the second-story window of Anton's study. He could see a narrow sliver of gray sky. He suddenly wished he were back in his small, safe cubicle in the basement of the Library of Congress, his greatest concern deciphering the spelling in eighteenth-century legal codes.

  Anton rose and came over to him.

  "You need more sleep," he said.

  "No," Benjamin answered. "I still have an appointment to keep at the Library of Congress to look for this diary. Though I still don't see how it could possibly fit into all this."

  "Ah, like I said, TEACUP two programs," Anton said. "First half about wobble in Cold War, yes?"

  "Yeah," said Benjamin. "I think I understand that now."

  "Second half," Anton said, "is other half of graph, about how find same wobble in another war."

  Anton waited… and then the answer was obvious to Benjamin.

  "King Philip's War," he said, half to himself. But then he frowned. "But that was hardly a cold war. Thousands died, whole tribes were wiped out."

  "Think he used this king's war as kind of control, test case, time when conditions completely different than Cold War. To compare, understand?" Benjamin nodded. "But then TEACUP finds same… aberration. Path different," Anton shrugged, "but wobble same."

  "You mean… some other invisible influence?"

  Anton nodded, then he stood up, stretched again. "But remember, even TEACUP only eighty percent sure. Need two more pieces of data to be one hundred percent. One is this Stzenariy 55, and the other is…"

  "The Bainbridge diary," finished Benjamin.

  "Maybe," said Anto
n.

  "Well then." Benjamin stood up. "Sounds like I've got a phone call to make, to a Ms. N. Orlova at the Russian Cultural Center." He looked down at Anton. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom to wash up?"

  "Please," he said. "Down hall, on left. Hot water slow, so be patient."

  "Patience," Benjamin said as he walked off down the hall. "Heard that a lot lately."

  Anton listened to the bathroom door close. Then he rose and went to his desk, pulled the phone there close. He dialed a number, listened until someone answered.

  "He's leaving," he said. And then, as the sound of running water came from down the hall, Anton continued listening, nodding now and again. Finally he said, "Helluva plan. Damn risky."

  Then, his eyes thoughtful and unsettled, he hung up the phone.

  CHAPTER 28

  Natalya was exhausted. She'd arrived at the Cultural Center at six o'clock that morning. It was now after noon, and she hadn't had a break during those six hours.

  First had been checking that the movers were arriving that morning to begin setting up the tables in the main reception hall; then that the decorators would be arriving shortly after that to begin laying out the tablecloths and silverware, as well as the dozens of flowers, garlands, wreaths, and other decorations that she hoped would transform the Cultural Center into something out of a nineteenth-century Tsarist Russia painting.

  She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment to grab something to eat. While she was there she decided to check her phone messages at home. There was only one, but it surprised her.

  Her father's cousin Olga had called and left a very brief message, telling her just to call her as soon as possible. To hear from Olga at all was strange-she and Natalya were not that close-but even stranger was when she'd left it: 7:00 A.M. Olga probably expected to catch her before she left for the RCC, but since she'd left so early to get ready for the reception, she hadn't been home.

  She was about to call Olga back on her cell phone, when one of the assistants came to tell her there was a phone call for her at her desk. Ah, she thought as she made her way upstairs, this must be my father calling to explain Olga's odd behavior.

  " Alloa, " she said, expecting to hear her father's baritone " privet " in response.

  "Uh… I'm sorry, is this Ms. N. Orlova?"

  The voice was clearly American, not Russian.

  "Well, this is Natalya Orlova, yes. Who is this?"

  "Ms. Orlova." There was a pause on the other end, and she realized the caller was trying to think what to say. "You don't know me. My name is Benjamin Wainwright. I'm a colleague of someone I believe contacted you, perhaps last week. His name was Dr. Jeremy Fletcher."

  Natalya held her breath. For a moment, she literally couldn't speak.

  "Miss Orlova?" the voice asked. "Are you there?"

  "Yes," she managed. She couldn't think straight. "Uh, you said… you said he was a colleague?"

  "Yes," the voice said. "I… it's difficult to explain over the telephone."

  Natalya's first impulse was to hang up. But she couldn't quite bring herself to do that.

  "Who did you say you were?" she asked, stalling for time to think.

  "Benjamin Wainwright," said the voice. "I'm… well, I was at the same place where Dr. Fletcher was doing his research. The American Heritage Foundation. In Massachusetts."

  Natalya thought back. There hadn't been any institutional letterhead on Fletcher's note, nor any bulk mail stamp on the envelope. She'd heard of the American Heritage Foundation; she knew obtaining any sort of relationship with the Foundation was considered a real coup by the people she'd studied with at Moscow State Institute. She also noticed that this Benjamin had said he "was" there.

  "You're not in Massachusetts now, Mr. Wainwright?"

  There was a pause. "No," he said. "I'm here. In D.C." Another pause. "I was wondering… I was hoping I might see you sometime today, Miss Orlova, and speak to you in person about Dr. Fletcher's research."

  "That would be impossible, Mr. Wainwright. I am very busy. We have a reception for the Bolshoi Ballet company tonight, and I have not a minute to spare…"

  "It's about a file on his computer, to be exact. A file named ' Stzenariy 55. ' Or, perhaps if you don't recognize that, you would know the name inside the file. Borba s tenyu?"

  Natalya lowered the phone. Her instinct was to put it and this Wainwright as far away from her as possible.

  But it was countered by an even more powerful instinct: the same one that drove her to sit in on Yuri's "interviews"; the same one that had kept her digging for years into her family's dark secrets. And that instinct wasn't about to send Mr. Wainwright away, regardless of the shivers she felt down her spine.

  "Ms. Orlova?" Benjamin asked. "Perhaps I'm not pronouncing it correctly. I'm afraid I don't know Russian, and-"

  "Mr. Wainwright," she stopped him. She looked about her. Everyone was focused on their tasks for the reception, but still, to have him come today would simply be impossible. If she took time away from the preparations it would be noticed, and she didn't want to attract any undue attention. But she also knew she had to see this Wainwright, as soon as possible. There was only one solution.

  "Mr. Wainwright," she said. "How would you like to attend a reception tonight?"

  CHAPTER 29

  As usual, the beauty and elegance of the Library of Congress made an impression on Benjamin as did no other building in Washington, not even the monuments. The ornate Italian Renaissance architecture, the stained-glass dome high overhead, the quiet, majestic glow of light reflected from the polished wood reading tables… This was indeed a palace, thought Benjamin. A palace for books.

  He stood amidst the murmuring crowd of a tour group, one he'd unobtrusively joined on the library's steps-even though he still had his employee badge, he hadn't wanted to use it to gain entry. He had a floppy fedora hat borrowed from Anton on his head as his meager attempt at a disguise, counting on his colleagues being too busy to really notice him among another knot of visitors gawking at the library's magnificence.

  As they'd entered the library's foyer, the guide had begun her spiel-a spiel Benjamin knew by heart.

  "The Library of Congress, established by an act of Congress in 1800… The original library was housed in the new Capitol until August 1814, when British troops burned and pillaged it… Retired President Thomas Jefferson donated his personal library as a replacement…" (That part wasn't true; Jefferson had sold his collection, very reluctantly, in order to pay off a fraction of his enormous debts.) "… The library possesses the most comprehensive collection in the world today, with over 130 million items, including the largest rare book collection in North America…"

  And let's hope there's one among those rare books they still don't know they possess, thought Benjamin.

  He walked through the Great Hall to the staircase, marveling as always at the cherub statues ascending the railing; up the staircase past the names of illustrious authors set into the vaulted coves of the ceiling-Dante, Homer, Milton-past the intricate mosaics inlaid into alcoves along the walls, each with its symbol representing the arts and sciences-Mathematics, Astronomy, Engineering. From the second floor he could survey the eight large statues representing the eight categories of knowledge. He glanced briefly at his favorite, Philosophy: The inquiry, knowledge, and belief of truth is the sovereign good of human nature-Bacon.

  Today above all days, he dearly prayed Bacon was right.

  Finally he came to the elaborately engraved bronze doors of the Special Collections room. Every time he passed through these doors, he felt he was entering some fortress, a bulwark against the ravages of barbarians and time. And, if he was even half right about what he expected to find here, fortress was an appropriate image-but not necessarily against the barbarians.

  Once inside Special Collections, he headed to a separate, smaller room off to the right that held collections of paintings and prints from the American Colonial period, and where he'd spent many hours
researching. He was looking for a particular book, an anthology of prints of American heroes of the Revolutionary War. After a few minutes of searching, he found the book he was looking for, pulled it from the shelves, and took it to a small study alcove set in a corner.

  He opened the book and thumbed through to the prints of American generals. After turning a few pages, he found the "hero" he was looking for: Major General Horatio Lloyd Gates, Esq.

  He'd been right: this engraving must have served as the basis for the painting over the Morris mantel. Here Gates stood, in major general's uniform, inside a tent; through the opening other tents and cannons and flags could be seen. Obviously it was meant to represent an encampment during the Revolutionary War. Here was Gates's double chin; the thick, pouty lips; the powdered wig. And, as in the painting, his left arm was extended downward, with one plump finger resting on something set on a small table.

  But, whereas in the painting that something had been a military map, here it was some sort of manuscript. There was writing on the manuscript, too small to make out with the naked eye.

  Benjamin went out to a desk in the reading room and opened a drawer where he knew a magnifying lens was kept. He carried it back into the alcove, trying very hard not to run.

  Once he was seated, he leaned down close to the print, the magnifying lens placed over the page. The writing was still illegible-it probably wasn't meant to represent any real writing at all. But there was a symbol at the bottom of the page, and, as he moved the magnifying lens down, it grew in size, until he could make it out.

  He sat back with an exhalation. And, just as he had while examining the mural at the Foundation, he reflexively looked over his shoulder, to see if anyone was watching.

  It was the same symbol as in the mural.

  Or one very much like it. It was so small, so indistinct, he couldn't be certain the tiny details were exactly the same.

  He checked beneath the engraving for the artist's name. There was none. He turned to the index in the back, found the engraving number. Again there was no artist listed, only the information that it had been published in 1778, under the auspices of one John Morris.