There was a general pause, and Benjamin could tell a bomb was about to drop. And finally it fell to Wolfe to drop it.
"Because one of the names on that visa list was Fletcher's current boss," said Wolfe steadily. "One Arthur Terrill."
"Arthur?!" Benjamin couldn't imagine the slight, precisely mannered academic involved in Cold War intrigue. "But… why him?"
"Is obvious," said Anton. "American guys, 12 Directorate guys get together. Everybody says, Cuba too damn close. One little slip, boom, everybody lose. You want to keep power, we want to keep power. How do we do that? How do we get to Nash equilibrium without blowing everybody up?"
Benjamin realized Anton wasn't asking a rhetorical question, but he didn't have the answer.
"How?" he asked.
"Fake it," Anton said. He took another bite of stew.
Benjamin looked at Anton, then at Wolfe.
"Fake it?" he said.
"Make it so you can't destroy us, we can't destroy you," said Anton. "Everything stable. But public need enemies. Need almost war." He looked at Benjamin steadily, as though willing him to understand what he was about to say. "Need cold war."
Benjamin waited for someone to say something else. But no one did.
"Are you saying…" Benjamin shook his head to clear it, then realized it wasn't the fog of drugs or alcohol. "Are you saying the Cold War was a sham?"
"Borba s tenyu," Anton said, nodding. "Shadow boxing."
"Only with nuclear gloves," added Wolfe. "And how appropriate. Their nickname for this new scenario, for Stzenariy 55, was Borba s tenyu. The Shadow War."
For a moment, Benjamin couldn't speak. Finally he said, "That's… impossible. There would have to be… well, thousands of people involved."
"Not at all," said Wolfe. "Just a few. The right few."
"In Soviet Union," Anton said, "maybe twenty people in 12 Directorate know nuclear war plan. They give orders, everybody else just follow orders."
"And the American plan," said Wolfe, "SIOP… well, it's so complicated, there aren't many more than a dozen people who even understand it. It's all under the control of STRATCOM. Not even the president can change it. He just gives the go-ahead. Everything else is automatic. It's a conspiracy he doesn't need to know he's part of," finished Wolfe, raising and draining his glass.
"But…" Benjamin thought of something. "But the missiles are real. The bombs are real."
"Ah," said Wolfe. "That returns us to Comrade Leverotov's journal." He pulled the journal over, pushed it toward Benjamin. "See those columns of numbers?"
Benjamin looked at them. They meant nothing to him.
"So what?" he said. For some reason, he was feeling defiant, angry. He realized deep down he didn't want what they were telling him to be true.
Now it was Nikolai's turn to speak. "Remember, I told you about Czech crisis, about drill where things don't make sense?" Benjamin nodded. "Well, arming codes and targeting protocol before Cuba was in missiles. But after Cuba, arming codes and targets come from Moscow. From 12 Directorate. But in drill, red light tells us these codes transmitted. System thought missiles were launched, so sent codes."
"So?" said Benjamin, still defiant.
"Leverotov was an engineer," said Wolfe. "An exceptionally talented one. He knew the missiles would store these codes until they were given new ones. So he decided to check one missile, find out just what those codes had been. And he knew how to translate them. But what he discovered, he simply didn't believe."
"And what did he discover?" asked Benjamin.
"The missile had never been armed. And its target was a spot north of the Arctic Circle. But nothing was there. No NATO base, no submarine patrol zones. Nothing. So he checked another missile. Same thing. And another missile. Same thing." Wolfe pulled the journal back, closed it. "Over the next month, he checked over half the missiles of Uzhur-4. And what he found was that every single one of them, if they'd blasted off, would have been sent straight to the emptiness of the North Pole, there to punch a hole in the ice and sink to the bottom of the ocean like so much scrap metal."
"And," added Nikolai, "if mistake, each missile can be destroyed, poof, in the air. From Moscow. From guys in 12 Directorate."
"You have to admit," Wolfe said with grudging respect, "it was brilliant. No outward sign the weapons had been tampered with, and if the 'arrangement' ever collapsed, simply enter real codes, and voila. Real MADness."
"I would guess I maybe know two of those 'brilliant' 12 Directorate guys," added Anton. "Dmitri Korsilov and Vladimir Potyminken. Old hands by time I came. Now, who knows where they are-or who they are friends with?"
Benjamin found himself struggling to take it all in.
"But that's just one missile base. What about all the others? What about the submarines, the planes…?"
"In Soviet Union, everything controlled by Moscow," said Nikolai. "Not one bomb can go off without right signal." Nikolai looked at him, smiled. "And 12 Directorate controls all signals."
Benjamin thought for a minute, came up with what suddenly seemed to him the most obvious objection of all.
"But this," he indicated Leverotov's journal, "is all about the Soviet plan. What about the American plan, this… SIOP? You said both sides had to know what the other was doing for this Nash equilibrium to work. What proof do you have the Americans were cooperating with this… shadow war?"
Wolfe set his glass down. "In the case of the United States we don't need a secret history, we have a very public one." He leaned back in his chair again, directing his full attention to Benjamin.
"In the late sixties, the CIA created something called Team B. It was made up of outside experts, people from a very prestigious think tank, and therefore supposedly neutral. Their report argued that the Soviet strength had been seriously under estimated, and they suggested an even bigger American arms buildup. Now, guess who that prestigious think tank was," Wolfe said provocatively, "and who was leader of Team B."
"The American Heritage Foundation," Benjamin said, automatically. "And one Dr. Arthur Terrill."
Wolfe raised his glass in reply.
"Strange thing is," Anton said, "everybody read Team B report said is cuckoo. Including me."
Wolfe nodded. "I've seen it, too. The intelligence doesn't jive with reality. Yet, oddly enough, Team B's National Intelligence Estimate on the Soviet Union became holy writ. Then you get Reagan, you get many more billions spent on shiny new missiles…"
"Okay now," Benjamin interrupted him. "That's where I just cannot go along with this. Think of those billions of dollars-"
"Exactly," said Wolfe, looking him straight in the eye. "Think of those billions. And then think of who stands to lose if they stop flowing."
Benjamin nodded silently. "Still, to do all this for money…"
"And power," interjected Anton. "To some, is more important than money."
"I suppose," said Benjamin. "But there's a mystery neither money nor power explains. Why did Leverotov shoot himself back in 1968?"
"Once he saw numbers in missiles," Nikolai said, pointing to the journal, "he knew everything. He understood fake war. Was his fake war."
"His last entries," said Wolfe sadly, "were about how his commitment to defending the Motherland now seemed like some immense farce. And now that he knew the truth, that the world was being held hostage to an enormous lie, he was afraid that the KGB team investigating the missile drill glitch would learn that he knew. So, he decided to hide the evidence, and then eliminate the only key to that evidence: himself."
"I think it is tragic," said Natalya, speaking for the first time. "He must have felt entirely betrayed."
"But had some little hope," offered Nikolai. "That I would understand, would find his journal, and somehow let truth be known. But I didn't. Until now, forty years too late."
CHAPTER 53
Benjamin stood up and made his way to the coffeepot on the stove. He thought maybe some caffeine would make this extraordinary revelation cle
arer, or perhaps make it go away. Maybe he was still unconscious, dreaming it all.
Wolfe stood up, came over to him.
"We've had a little more time to adjust to this… discovery than you have, Benjamin," he said. "Remember what you told me about the Indian wars? That you thought this secret group of Puritans had used them, perhaps even provoked them, to gain power and hold on to it?" Benjamin nodded but didn't say anything. "Well, this is the same idea, only with nuclear missiles instead of bows and arrows."
Wolfe shook his head. "There's still so much we don't know. But I assume once Arthur felt Fletcher's research was showing results, he brought him to the Foundation so he could control those results. Perhaps he even thought they could use that research to better hide any cracks in their forty-year-old cover-up. That's only one of the questions I plan on asking him." He looked thoughtful for a moment.
"I also assume it wasn't Arthur that authorized Fletcher's murder. I think that was our rash friend Hauser's doing, when Fletcher asked to see what he thought was the original diary at the Morris Estate. Anton told me what you discovered at the Library of Congress. What with so much of the Foundation's funding coming from the Morrises, that sort of embarrassment might have put the kibosh on this contract with the State Department even after all this time. The Foundation couldn't have that." He sighed, as though suddenly feeling the weight of so much betrayal and revelation. "But once it was done, what better way to still discover whatever other cracks might exist in their cover-up than bringing me in to investigate? And once I brought my findings to Arthur, well then…"
"They'd eliminate you?"
Wolfe didn't answer.
"I still don't understand," said Benjamin. "Forty years of fear? Of scaring the whole world with this nightmare of a nuclear Armageddon? An Armageddon that was a fake? Why not just admit the fallacy of the whole thing? Why not just negotiate?"
"Ah, Benjamin, you idealist you. They didn't do this out of any fondness for the Soviets. They did it because the only alternative was detente. Real detente. They needed an enemy with nuclear teeth, but one that couldn't really bite."
Natalya came over to the counter, put her empty plate in the sink. "Lenin once said that 'even the Devil is an acceptable ally if it means staying in power,' " she said.
Benjamin shook his head. "But all those people…"
"Who kept doing exactly what they would have done anyway," said Wolfe. "As far as anyone outside the small group of conspirators knew, it was real. On both sides. They thought they were working for the Cause."
Wolfe looked out the window into the apparently infinite darkness outside.
"And when you think about it, Benjamin, if there hadn't been such a conspiracy, the two political structures probably would have acted much the same way. Each needed an archenemy to keep their respective citizenries frightened and in line." He placed a hand on Benjamin's shoulder. "In the final analysis, it almost doesn't matter whether there was a conspiracy or not. We all got the cold war we needed."
Then Benjamin had another thought.
"But all of this, everything you've discovered, it still doesn't prove that the Foundation is involved, only Arthur and Hauser."
"As to that…," began Wolfe.
At that moment, there was a small pop, and a tiny hole appeared in the window in front of them. At the same instant, the oil lamp on the table shattered. The spilled oil was immediately ignited by the heat of the lamp, and a small river of flame spread toward the papers on the table.
"The journal!" Wolfe shouted.
Then several things happened simultaneously: Wolfe crouched down behind the counter, pulling Benjamin with him; there was a second pop and the window shattered. Something struck the fireplace, sending out slivers of stone. Natalya threw one of the coats over the flames from the lamp even as Nikolai reached for another of the oil lamps and pulled it down from the table.
"The other lamps," hissed Wolfe. "Put them out!"
There was yet another crash, this time of some of the vodka bottles on the shelf. Clear liquid flew from the shattered bottles onto the floor, where it touched some of the burning oil. The vodka ignited with a wavering blue flame, and soon there were two fires: one on the table, and a second spreading across the floor.
Now all of them were crouched on the floor. Anton was yanking journal pages from the table, beating them on the floor to extinguish their burning edges; Natalya was trying to smother the fire on the floor; and Nikolai had reached the other lamps and turned down their flame, so now the only light was from the fireplace and the burning oil and alcohol.
"Is anyone hit?" asked Wolfe.
"Bastards don't need to hit us," said Nikolai from the floor. "Just burn house down."
"Or burn book," said Anton. He was sitting on the floor next to the fireplace, Leverotov's journal clutched to his chest.
"How many?" said Wolfe to Nikolai.
"One, maybe two," answered Nikolai. "But they probably have night scopes."
"Who the hell is out there?" asked Benjamin.
"I would guess some old friends of Anton's from 12 Directorate," Wolfe said. "They've got as much a stake in keeping this secret as the Foundation. Maybe more." He was looking around the cabin. Then he spotted Boris's gun rack. "If only there was a way out of here other than the front door."
"There is," said Nikolai. "In bathroom, hole in floor, little tunnel. For when militia come."
"All right," Wolfe said. "Benjamin, you and Natalya and Anton, stay put. And stay low."
He crawled across the floor to the gun rack. Reaching up, he grabbed one of the rifles by the stock, pulled it down from the rack. Even as he did so, another bullet struck the gun rack, splintering the stock of the remaining rifle. Wolfe slid the rifle across the floor to Nikolai. He pulled his automatic pistol out of his parka, began crawling toward the bathroom.
"Come on, Nikolai. If they think we're still inside, perhaps we can sneak around them."
Nikolai crawled from the table, and both men moved slowly across the floor and into the bathroom. There was the sound of a section of the flooring being removed, and through the open doorway Benjamin could see the two men drop down through the floor to the ground beneath.
With both fires out, the only light now came from the flickering fireplace. Benjamin wasn't sure what to do. He crawled awkwardly across the floor to Natalya, trying to keep his shoulder from bumping into things in the dim light.
"Are you all right?" he asked, reaching her.
"Yes," she said. "Are you?"
"I'm okay," said Benjamin, cradling his shoulder.
"Me, too," said Anton from the fireplace, "if anyone asking."
"I should be out there," Benjamin said. "They don't know how many there are."
"With that arm in a sling, what could you do, except make a fine target?"
"I don't know," Benjamin said. "Something. Anything. But I feel like a coward, hiding here."
"Benjamin," Natalya said. She put her hand to the side of his face. She looked into his eyes. "What you did at shakhta thirty-four was not the act of a coward." She put her arm around his neck, pressed her head against his chest.
Benjamin smiled, but immediately winced in pain. "I was almost useless. If Samuel hadn't shown up-"
Suddenly there was the sharp crack of a shot somewhere outside the cabin, followed in quick succession by two more.
"If only the other rifle hadn't been hit," Natalya said, "at least we could defend ourselves."
It was then Benjamin remembered the Makarov pistol in his parka. He looked around the cabin.
"Natalya," he said, "where did you put my parka?"
"That's it," she said. "On that chair."
"Natalya, can you reach it?" he asked.
She began crawling toward the chair, keeping close to the floor. There was another crack of a rifle from outside, then the higher-pitched snap of another gun in response, and the cry of someone in pain.
"My father!" whispered Natalya.
"Just stay down," Benjamin said. "Your father's pistol is in the parka pocket. Throw it to me."
Natalya was at the chair. She reached up, felt in the right-hand pocket of the parka. "There is only a glove," she said; then, "No, wait, I think…"
Suddenly the front door to the cabin was thrown open. Against the dark backdrop of the night sky, littered with the white dots of snowflakes, there was the silhouette of someone tall, someone in a white snow parka and pants. In the dim light they could see he was dark skinned, with a black beard.
The figure began to raise its arm. And then Benjamin noticed that there was some sort of helmet on the man's head. In the flicker of the firelight, he saw the reflection from lenses set in the helmet, with a faint green glow behind them.
Now the figure moved its arm to the side-toward where Natalya lay, under the table, her hand inside the parka pocket.
A sudden shaft of bright light was cast into the room. Benjamin turned his head, saw Boris standing in the doorway to the bedroom, the light flooding out into the room.
"Kagogo Diavola?" Boris said.
The figure in the doorway raised an arm in front of his face, blocking out the sudden glare of light that must have blinded his night vision; at the same moment he fired a quick shot in Boris's direction. Boris jerked back as the bullet struck his thigh.
And then the figure was swinging his arm back toward Natalya.
Suddenly there was an eruption from the pocket of the parka over the chair-and the figure at the door staggered back as if hit by a fist in the chest. His gun discharged a bullet into the ceiling.
But he didn't go down. As he was lowering his arm, aiming again, Natalya fired a second time.
The figure lifted its arm weakly-but the pistol dropped from his hand. And then he fell backward, out into the snow, and lay still.
"Anton!" Benjamin shouted. "Anton, put out the fire!"
Anton moved from the fireplace, jerked a coat down from a rack on the wall, patted it over the fire in the bedroom. Boris lay on his side, groaning. Natalya crawled over to Benjamin.
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