by Steve Berry
“Seems all roads point to this Society of Cincinnati,” Luke said.
She agreed.
“I’m assuming you know where we head next?”
That she did.
But more importantly she wanted to know what was happening in Siberia.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Malone did not like the situation. Zorin seemed quite confident, as evident from the calculation and contempt that filled the older man’s face. He’d also noticed the firm easy strides across the basement which signaled the unmistakable air of a conquering hero. And the voice, clearly sour with bitterness, still held suggestions of energy that belied his years, reinforced by an impressive physical appearance that included bearish shoulders, a thick chest, and huge veined hands.
“I have a debt to pay and I intend to pay it.”
Those words had been delivered with a hard stare and macabre grin, both of which contained only defiance. Outwardly, Zorin gave the appearance of a coarse, uneducated man. And though Malone had spent only a few moments with him there was no doubt that here was a bold and barnacled Cold War veteran. Most likely a dangerous sociopath, too. He knew the type. Highly motivated achievers, alarmingly efficient, with few to no elements of conscience, their greatest fault came from actions governed by faulty reasoning.
And here seemed the perfect example.
Zorin was still fighting the Cold War.
Which ended a long time ago.
He’d been led into the house at gunpoint, a naked Belchenko remaining in the hothouse. His two minders had forced him down to the chilly basement, a windowless space with hewn-stone walls. They’d removed his coat and weapon, cuffing both of his hands with steel manacles between an iron pipe. What they hadn’t touched was the wallet in his back pocket, and that omission offered him hope.
He just needed a little privacy.
Which he now had.
Zorin was gone, back up to ground level. The sound of a door closing above signaled opportunity so he twisted his body, slid his cuffed hands down the pipe, and used the little bit of play that he had to retrieve his wallet. Inside, he quickly found the pick. The cuffs sported a simple lock that should be easy to trip.
Zorin apparently carried a hard-on for the United States. Why he longed for the old Soviet Union seemed odd. Its mortality rate had been nearly 50 percent, the life expectancy dismal. If the communist regime had not imploded it most likely would have died out through attrition. Shortages of goods and services had been epidemic. Alcoholism soared. Prices stayed in orbit, while wages had plummeted and corruption ran rampant. Lenin’s pledge of equality and autonomy for all never happened. Instead, a system emerged that ordained a succession of tyrannies, each existing solely to perpetuate both itself and the privileged few who ran it.
So what was there to miss?
More of that dangerous sociopath faulty reasoning, he assumed.
He continued to work the lock on his right wrist, the damn thing more stubborn than he’d thought it would be. Something Oscar Wilde said came to mind. Truth is rarely pure and never simple. Yet it seemed so to Zorin, who apparently had taken a perverse enjoyment in his former life.
Where was he headed? What was this all about?
Stephanie needed to know everything.
He heard a door open, then a rush of footfalls down the stairs and the two men from earlier appeared. Both were burly and unshaven, with Mongoloid faces and shoulders strong as plowmen.
He slipped the pick from the lock and palmed it in his right hand.
The two wasted no time, pouncing on him, slamming their fists into his gut. Nothing cracked, which was probably intentional. As Zorin had noted, these guys didn’t want the fun to end too soon. He’d prepared himself for the blows, but they still hurt. The men shed their coats, then yanked the sleeves to their sweaters up to the elbow, ready to go to work. They both smiled, knowing there was nothing he could do. He sucked a few breaths of the fetid air, which smelled of dust and heating oil.
“You guys are pretty tough with my hands cuffed,” he tried. “Cut me loose and let’s do this like men.”
Red Sweater drove a fist the size of a small ham into his stomach.
He decided, what the hell, and pivoted with his spine off the iron pipe, driving his right leg into Red’s knee, buckling the joint and sending the Russian screaming to the floor. Black Sweater lunged and tried to plant another fist. But Malone repeated the move, this time using the iron pipe for maximum leverage to drive both feet into his attacker’s chest, sending Black reeling backward.
Red stood and rubbed his knee. Anger filled his eyes.
He doubted he could buy himself enough time to get the cuffs off. Both men readied themselves to attack at the same time. So they weren’t near as stupid as they looked. He figured after a few blows to the head he’d see nothing but stars, which should daze him enough so they could smash at will. And these guys appeared no longer interested in subtlety.
They wanted him dead.
Two loud bangs pierced the cellar.
Both men gasped, their eyes wide open. Blood oozed from Red’s mouth. Then all muscular control ceased and they dropped to the ground, like marionettes off their strings. Behind them, at the foot of the stairs, stood Vadim Belchenko. The older man was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans that would have sagged off save for a belt tightly wrapped at the waist. The right hand held Malone’s Beretta.
Belchenko stepped over the two bodies. The face was even more pale and splotchy than in the bath, the colorless eyes devoid of expression. “I told you I could still shoot.”
“And the reason you killed them?” he asked.
Belchenko produced a key from his pocket and tossed it over. “To help you. Why else?”
He caught the key and freed his wrists from the cuffs.
“I heard what Zorin told you,” Belchenko said. “You realize that he is insane.”
He felt like a shuttlecock in a game of badminton. Confusion swamped him. He wasn’t sure what he realized. “I thought you two were on the same side?” The gun was still pointed his way, so he motioned toward it and said, “You going to shoot me, too?”
Belchenko handed over the Beretta. “I found it upstairs. I hope you don’t mind my borrowing it.”
“Not at all. In fact, you’re welcome to it anytime. I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to get clear of those two.”
“These men are all fanatics. They live down in the village and worship Zorin. He’s the senior man here. Together, they cling to an ideal that really never existed.”
“And you?”
“How could anyone believe that a political system could provide all of the goods and services a people needed without cost? A daily gratification that would eliminate greed, selfishness, miserliness, and infidelity. A place where man could become noble, strong, and courageous. Crime, violence, and social ills would vanish. It’s absurd. The experiment called the Soviet Union only proved that none of that is possible.”
He should be leaving. His mission was done. But a new one was forming, one that involved an obsessed communist. “What is it Zorin’s after? He said he had a debt to pay.”
Belchenko’s wizened head nodded. “That he does. In his mind he feels he owes the United States.”
Stephanie had passed on that Belchenko was a former KGB archivist. So he asked, “What did you tell him?”
“If I hadn’t told Zorin what he wanted to know, he would have killed me. If I lied, he would have gone, discovered the truth, then returned and killed me. So I opted to tell him the truth. But I doubt it matters any longer. So much time has passed. There is nothing left to find.”
He had a barrage of questions, but one seemed the most important. “So why are you talking to me?”
“Because I have never been an idealist. Instead, I was simply born into an evil and corrupt system and learned to survive. Eventually, I became the guardian of communist secrets, important to the privileged. They trusted me, and I kept their trust
. But they’re all gone now. Like you said to Zorin. The Cold War is over and the world is different. Only a few like these two here, dead on the floor, and Zorin think otherwise. What he wants to do is foolishness. It will accomplish nothing. So on the off chance that danger still exists, I decided to save your life and tell you the truth, too.” Belchenko paused. “You asked what Zorin is after.”
He waited.
“Nuclear weapons—that no one knows exist.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Stephanie and Luke stepped from the cab in front of Anderson House. The limestone Beaux-Arts mansion sat on Massachusetts Avenue, a few blocks away from Dupont Circle, in the heart of Embassy Row. She knew all about the palatial building. It’d been built during the Gilded Age by an American diplomat named Anderson as one of the largest and most expensive residences in DC. It served as his family home during the winter social season, designed to both entertain and showcase a collection of fine art and furniture. When Anderson died in 1937, his wife gave the house to a group near and dear to his heart.
The Society of Cincinnati.
America’s mistreatment of war veterans seemed to stay in the news. But that shame was nothing new. It actually started in 1783 when the Revolutionary War ended. At the time most Continental officers had not been paid in four years. Needless to say discontent was widespread. Rumors abounded that the army would soon be disbanded with those debts remaining unsettled. Serious talk of a military coup began to circulate, which could have succeeded since the fledging nation had no way to defend itself. George Washington had to personally intervene and quell any new revolutionary fever. Then General Henry Knox seized on an idea to form a fraternal society that would look after the officers’ collective interests, even after the army dissolved. He envisioned the group as a way to channel anger into constructive talk, and the idea drew approval.
Its name came naturally.
Latin classics were a mainstay of study for any 18th-century learned man. Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus lived as a 5th-century Roman aristocrat, banished to poverty on his farm. When war threatened, the Roman Senate voted him absolute authority for a period of six months to deal with the crisis. Victory came within two weeks and Cincinnatus, citing the greater good, civic virtue, and personal modesty, resigned his dictatorial post and returned to his farm. That example fit those Continental officers perfectly, since they, too, were headed back to their own plows. And, like Cincinnatus, the prospect of poverty loomed great. The society’s long-standing motto reflected a sense of selfless service.
Omnia reliquit servare rempublicam.
He relinquished everything to save the republic.
Nearly half of the 5,500 eligible officers initially joined the society. Washington was elected its first president general, a position he held until his death in 1799. He was succeeded by Alexander Hamilton. Twenty-three signers of the Constitution became members. The town of Cincinnati, Ohio, was named to honor the society, as the first governor of that territory had been a member and hoped others would come west and settle there. Membership had always depended on sex and heredity. Originally, any male officer of the Continental army could join. Once that officer died, he could be represented in the society by only one male descendant at a time. A collateral heir could assume the role if the direct male line died out.
And that tradition remained today.
She knew all of this because her late husband had been a member of the Maryland branch. Originally, each of the thirteen colonies organized a local group. Lars Nelle’s paternal ancestors had fought in the Revolutionary War from Maryland, and one of them had been a society founding member. Earlier, when she saw the book under the glass cover, memories had come flooding back. Her husband had been a man not prone to much excitement. His moroseness was something she came to accept, then regret after he took his own life. Lars had not been enthusiastic about most things, but one that always brought him joy had been the Society of Cincinnati.
She checked her watch.
9:05 A.M.
Before leaving the hotel she’d scoured the society’s website and learned that the house and library opened at nine, but tours of the house did not begin until after lunch. The mansion had served as a museum for decades, doubling as the group’s national headquarters. Its ballroom was also available for rent to outside functions, and over the years she’d attended several.
One from long ago in particular.
August 1982.
She was impressed with the ballroom’s two-story white walls lined with murals, warmly lit by a pair of magnificent crystal chandeliers. A dozen white-clothed oval tables stood ready across an inlaid oak floor. Particularly noteworthy was the flying staircase with an iron balustrade that led up to an open balcony. Twisted Baroque columns supported the perch, creating an overhead musicians’ gallery that tonight accommodated a classical trio.
Six months had passed since her talk with President Reagan. Already she’d visited Rome four times, meeting the pope, establishing a rapport, building a relationship. She and John Paul II had found common ground, discussing opera and classical music, which they both enjoyed. Reagan seemed to also be a constant subject for them. The pope was curious about the American president, asking many questions and demonstrating a knowledge that surprised her. She had reported all of this to the president, as he, too, was fascinated to know more about the Roman pontiff.
Two months ago the president and the pope met privately in the Vatican. She’d laid the groundwork for those talks, pleased that a deal had been struck. She hadn’t been present in June. Instead, she’d waited at a nearby hotel until the president and his entourage were gone. Then she’d worked quietly with her Rome counterparts to finalize the details of what both sides would be doing in the coming months. A lot was happening in Eastern Europe, the world changing by the day, and she was thrilled to be a part of that.
Tonight she’d been invited to a State Department reception. The invitation had come as a surprise. An envelope on her desk when she returned from lunch had requested her presence at Anderson House, near Dupont Circle, at 6:00 P.M. The summons had presented an immediate wardrobe problem, solved by a quick stop at a local boutique. She wondered about the invite, as few of the faces present were familiar. One, though, she knew. George Shultz. The secretary of state himself.
He’d assumed the post only a month ago, after Al Haig had been quietly forced out. There’d been differences of opinion as to how the administration’s foreign policy should proceed. Secretary Haig liked one path, but the White House wanted another.
“I see you received my invitation,” Shultz said to her as he approached.
Her boss was an economist and academician who’d made a name for himself in the private sector. He’d also managed to serve in three cabinet-level posts for Nixon, now in his fourth with Reagan as secretary of state. He was dressed in a dapper black tuxedo that snugly fit his stout frame.
“I wasn’t aware that the invitation came from you,” she said.
Six months ago everything about this scenario would have been intimidating. But her presidential recruitment and covert missions to Italy had fortified her confidence. She was now a player in a major game. Unfortunately, only Alexander Haig and the president knew that.
“Let’s walk out to the winter garden,” he said, gesturing for her to lead the way.
French doors lined one wall of the long ballroom and allowed people to flow naturally out into what was once an orangery that overlooked a terraced backyard adorned with statuary and a reflecting pond. The narrow rectangular gallery was lined with garden murals, gilded trellis work, and marble columns. The floor was polished marble, slick as glass, the ceiling faux-painted like the sky. He motioned and they entered a small room at one end that held a dining table and chairs.
“I want you to know that Forward Pass will continue,” he said, his voice low. “In fact, things will now escalate.”
Apparently her new boss had been briefed.
Just a few days ag
o Shultz had proclaimed publicly that the State Department’s most important task would be Soviet and European diplomacy. Before leaving, Haig had caused some alarm by openly suggesting that a nuclear warning shot in Europe might be a good way to deter the Soviet Union. Such overtness ran contrary to everything the president wanted to achieve. Ronald Reagan hated nuclear weapons. Though the public may not have realized that fact, those close to him definitely did. Over the past few months relations had grown strained not only between Washington and Moscow but also between Washington and key foreign capitals. In response to martial law in Poland the United States had prohibited American companies, and their European subsidiaries, from involvement in the construction of a natural gas pipeline from Siberia to West Germany. European leaders had vigorously protested those sanctions since they affected their own financial interests. Haig had done little to ease that tension. So she assumed that it would now fall to the man standing beside her to deal with the problem.
“The president himself told me of your special assignment,” Shultz said. “He has a grand plan, does he not?”
Haig had spoken to her only once about Forward Pass, fishing for information. She’d politely dodged his inquiries, which had created a level of tension between them.
“The president’s looking for help,” Shultz said. “He wants partners. He’s not asking for debate on how to proceed, only that we follow his lead. I intend to do that. I want you to know that I expect you to do the same.”
“You know the goal?”
He nodded. “And I think we can get there. I have to say, prior to being selected for this job I wasn’t necessarily a fan of Ronald Reagan. I thought him, as many others do, unqualified for the job. He was an actor, for God’s sake. But I was wrong. This man is insightful and smart. He knows what he wants and intends to get it. I like that. It’s refreshing. He told me that he will make all major foreign policy decisions himself, but the details of those decisions, the actual diplomacy, will be up to me.” Shultz paused. “Especially regarding Forward Pass. You and I have a tough job ahead of us.”
