by Greg Cox
“That's where you are wrong, Seven,” Khan stated confidently, confirming the colonel's cold-blooded appraisal of his character. “Lectures on morality will not rescue Gorbachev in time, nor bring an end to the senseless chaos plaguing mankind.” His unsheathed dagger furiously slashed the air. “Only action, swift and sure!”
There is no stopping him, Komananov understood at last, realizing that she was running out of time and options. Having supervised many a stringent interrogation in the soundproof cells beneath KGB headquarters, she had no illusions about the human animal's ability to resist torture—or Khan's willingness to do whatever was required to extract the truth from her. Sooner or later, he would obtain the answers he sought, even if he had to eliminate Number Seven first.
“Nyet,” she whispered, steeling herself for what was to come. There was only one course left to her, if the operation—and the State—were to survive. “Counterrevolutionary filth!” she suddenly screamed. “ Foreign adventurists!” Shrieking like rampaging Cossack horseman, she threw herself at Khan, who instinctively thrust out his dagger to defend himself. The colonel ran right into the waiting knife, deliberately impaling herself upon the cold steel blade.
“No!” Khan cried out in anger, pulling back his encrimsoned knife too late. Da! Anastasia Komananov thought triumphantly, feeling her lifeblood gush from her sundered heart. As her legs collapsed beneath her, and eternal darkness overcame the glare from Number Seven's shaky flashlight, she had only one last request of fate. Please, she pleaded with her last dying breath, let me be remembered in the pantheon of historic Soviet heroes, and not just as a slinky femme fatale in that tawdry spy thriller . . . !
Grim-faced, Khan rose from the lifeless body of the dedicated KGB officer. “She had great courage,” he granted, giving the dead woman her due. Unlike Evergreen, that scientist in Antarctica, she did not rise again after breathing her last. Nor did Khan expect her to; in the last two years, he had become much more familiar with violent death and its consequences. “A pity such a superior woman had to throw away her life for such an ignoble cause.”
“This has been a costly affair, Khan,” Gary Seven said, contemplating the fallen colonel with a look of profound regret. He looked older than Khan remembered, his face more haggard and etched with strain and worry. “Perhaps more so than necessary.”
“Spare me your pious recriminations, old man,” Khan growled impatiently. If the meddlesome American had not delayed him with his constant carping and protestations, he might have already wrested the truth from the Russian witch! Nonetheless, he arrested the spin of his chakram and returned the steel ring to his arm. With Komananov beyond his power to interrogate further, there was no longer any reason to keep Seven at bay. He wiped off his dagger on the fabric of his trousers and tucked the blade back into his belt. “Gorbachev remains in mortal danger, and there is much to do before this night's work is over.”
Searching through the pockets of his trousers, he found the servo he had taken from Komananov outside the Tomb. “Here,” he said brusquely, lobbing the ingenious device back to Seven. “Summon your unnatural mist. We must get to Iceland at once, and I can think of no faster way to do so.”
It galled him enormously to be dependent on Seven once more, but larger issues took priority over his wounded pride. The reckless arms race between the United States and the Soviet Union threatened the entire planet with apocalypse. Colonel Komananov's co-conspirators could be not allowed to jeopardize Mikhail Gorbachev's peace offensive. I have my own plans for this world, Khan brooded morosely, and they do not include ruling over a radioactive cinder.
If only he knew how Gorbachev's nameless assassin intended to strike! “Well?” he prodded Seven, glaring across the dank underground crossroads at the man whose path kept crossing his own at the most inopportune times. Khan had not expected to find Seven on the trail of Komananov's conspiracy any more than Seven had anticipated Khan's timely appearance in Moscow. “What are you waiting for? Death waits for Gorbachev in Reykjavik, and there is not a moment to lose!”
Seven managed a thin, infuriating smile. “You need not fret, Khan.” He activated the servo, which beeped as he lifted it before his lips like a microphone. “I already have agents on the scene. . . .”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
HOFOI HOUSE
REYKJAVIK
REPUBLIC OF ICELAND
OCTOBER 10, 1986
“IT IS GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN, MR. PRESIDENT,” MIKHAIL GORBACHEV said. “Permit me to introduce my translator, Ms. Radhinka Lenin.”
“Thank you, Mr. General Secretary,” the President said warmly. “And you, too, young lady.”
Standing beside Gorbachev, Roberta smiled politely at Ronald Reagan and recast the President's reply into Russian, discreetly assisted by the automatic translator in her earrings. She still couldn't believe that Gary Seven had actually managed to get her this gig. Boy, did he have to call in plenty of favors, she recalled, not to mention manufacture some pretty impressive phony credentials!
It would be worth the effort, though, if her close proximity to the general secretary allowed her to keep an eye out for the assassin Seven had warned her about less than twenty minutes ago, right before the beginning of this reception. According to Seven, who had contacted her via servo from Moscow ( where he had also run into Noon Singh, of all people!), the unknown killer would strike tonight, perhaps even within minutes. All of which put Roberta in the unenviable position of being personally responsible for the safety of Mikhail Gorbachev and, quite possibly, peace in our time.
Wonderful, she thought sarcastically. Trying not to be too obvious about it, while simultaneously keeping up with her duties as Gorby's translator, she scoped out the tony, high-powered affair in which she was currently playing a key supporting role:
Hofoi House was a modest municipal reception hall with white clapboard walls and a picture window overlooking the harbor. Formerly home ( at different times) to the French and British consulates, the venerable building was also said to be haunted, although by whom Roberta was not quite clear. A skylight in the gabled ceiling provided an eye-catching view of the Northern Lights shimmering brightly overhead, as well as a potential access point for, say, a crazed ninja assassin.
No, Roberta reconsidered, letting her gaze waft downward from the ceiling, I have to assume that the Secret Service, as well as its Soviet counterpart, have a tight watch on every exit and entrance. The attack on Gorbachev, if and when it arrived, would not come from such an obvious direction. I have to be on guard for something much trickier.
Although formal negotiations were not scheduled to commence until tomorrow morning, tonight's cocktail reception was intended to provide the U. S. and Soviet delegations with a chance to socialize briefly, and for Reagan and Gorbachev to give each other some personal face time, before everyone got down to the serious business of nuclear arms reductions. At the moment, the spacious hall, whose wooden walls were decorated with paintings and tapestries illustrating Iceland's proud Viking past, was crammed with a mixture of American, Russian, and Icelandic dignitaries, plus a small army of aides and translators. A buffet table, draped in white chiffon, offered samples of various local delicacies, including shark, haddock, puffin, and creamy yogurt pudding. Two other Icelandic staples, freshly killed whale and seal, were conspicuously absent, no doubt in deference to international sensitivities, whaling and seal-bashing being touchy issues these days.
Near the end of the buffet, Iceland's own president, Vigdis Finnbogadottir, was entertaining both Nancy Reagan and Raisa Gorbachev. That can't be fun, Roberta thought sympathetically; rumor had it that the two First Ladies actively loathed each other, unlike their respective spouses, who had managed to hit it off, and form a good working relationship, when they first met in Geneva a year ago. Hopes were high for this second summit, which was probably what had put the hard-liners at the Kremlin in such a tizzy.
Operation: Giant-Killer, Roberta mused, recalling the assassination plot's
inconveniently cryptic code name. What on Earth could that be a reference to? David and Goliath? Her eyes nervously turned toward the picture window facing the harbor, where moonlight glistened upon the crests of rolling waves. Surely the bad guys weren't planning to kill Gorbachev with a rock hurled by a sling? But what else could “Giant-Killer” mean?
“I'm glad we have another opportunity to talk like this, face-to-face,” Reagan said to Gorbachev. Roberta had to interrupt her worried speculations to translate the elderly president's remarks. A head taller, and a quarter of a century older, than his fellow world leader, the President addressed Gorbachev in a characteristically genial manner, rather like an uncle advising a favorite nephew. “I enjoyed our fireside chat in Geneva last fall, and think that we have a real opportunity here to further improve relations between our two countries.”
“Yes, exactly!” Gorbachev agreed enthusiastically. Unlike his phlegmatic predecessors in the Kremlin, Russia's new General Secretary was an energetic and charismatic individual. He did not wait for Reagan's own translator, an attractive blond woman named Sommers, whom Roberta believed had once been a champion tennis player, to convey his assent to Reagan before continuing in the same vein. “It is our duty to rid the world of the terrible menace of nuclear weapons. As you yourself once wisely said, ‘a nuclear war could never be won and must never be fought.’ ” He slapped his leg loudly for emphasis. “That is why we are here!”
Obviously, Gorbachev had no intention of waiting until tomorrow to make his agenda known. Roberta knew that more than idealism motivated the Russian leader's determination to achieve serious arms reductions; the Soviet economy was on life-support and could not afford to keep up with America in an escalating arms race, especially with Reagan talking about expanding that race into space with his controversial Strategic Defense Initiative, better known as “Star Wars.”
“Whoa there, Mikhail,” the President said, leading Roberta to hope that the handy-dandy translator in her ear could come up with the Russian equivalent of “whoa.” Reagan held up his hands, as if to ward off Gorbachev's aggressive lobbying tactics. “I want to eliminate the nuclear threat as much as anyone on this planet, but we have to proceed carefully. There are still some important issues to be worked out here.”
“Like your so-called missile defense system?” Gorbachev shot back, apparently intent on pressing the issue. “Let us not mince words. I am prepared to offer you significant reductions in our nuclear arsenal in exchange for your promise not to test or deploy any space-based military weapon systems. Such an agreement is crucial if we are to achieve a lasting peace between our two nations.”
Reagan's voice took on a stronger, firmer tone. “That program is a defensive system, Mr. Gorbachev,” he said sternly, kind of like when he took control of the microphone during that presidential debate years ago. Roberta recognized this as his “I paid for that microphone” voice.
“Which would give you a first-strike capacity against us!” Gorbachev shot back. His face flushed angrily, not quite matching the beet-red birthmark on his forehead, which curiously resembled the outline of South America. “This is totally unacceptable.”
To be honest, Roberta had her own reservations about Reagan's Strategic Defense Initiative. The whole idea struck her as only slightly less scary than that orbital nuclear platform that Gary Seven sabotaged way back in '68, when he first arrived on Earth. The more things change, the more they stay the same, she reflected ruefully. What was it Seven had said when Reagan originally went on TV to hype his proposed missile-defense program? Oh yeah, she recalled, hearing Gary Seven's exasperated voice in her head: “How many times do I have to scare you people out of extending your arms race into space . . . ?”
Don't blame me, she thought. I voted for Mondale. Fatigue swept over her as she dutifully waited for Reagan's response, while also trying unsuccessfully to anticipate the nameless assassin's strategy. If only she wasn't so jet-lagged, having flown all the way to Iceland with the rest of the Soviet delegation. Reykjavik was a logical spot for the summit, being equidistant from Moscow and New York, but it had still been a long trip across at least three time zones. It's already past eight, Moscow time, she calculated, wondering if Seven and Noon had parted company yet. Thank goodness that, at the very least, Noon turned up in Moscow and not here; she was under enough pressure without having to deal with that cocky teenage superman to boot.
“Perhaps we should save this discussion for the bargaining table,” Reagan suggested, not unreasonably. Switching back into avuncular mode, the former movie star flashed his most irresistible smile. “I think I know just the thing to sweeten this conversation,” he said with a grin.
The President snapped his fingers, and, on cue, a youngish aide rushed forward, bearing a clear glass jar packed to the brim with brightly colored jelly beans. Roberta resisted a temptation to roll her eyes. Of course, she thought; the whole world knew that Ronnie loved his jelly beans.
Reagan took the glass container from the somewhat nervouslooking aide and offered it to Gorbachev. “A gift,” he explained, with a twinkle in his eye, “from one friend to another.”
His charm offensive had the desired effect, or perhaps the canny Gorbachev simply made a strategic decision not to push his luck any further. In any event, the Russian leader smiled back at Reagan and graciously accepted the gift. “Spasibo, Mr. President,” he said vigorously, handing the heavy jar over to Roberta to hold. “These look very tasty indeed!”
Roberta had to admit the glossy, rainbow-hued candies looked a lot more appetizing than, say, the highly pungent shark pieces on the buffet table. She was not at all surprised when Gorbachev, being a good sport, lifted the lid off the container in her hands, then scooped out a handful of gourmet Jelly Belly jelly beans. “Perhaps I should save some of these ‘beans’ for our Ministry of Agriculture,” he quipped, pausing as he raised the candy toward his lips so that the official summit photographer could record the moment for posterity. Reagan chuckled appropriately.
Beans, Roberta thought, the word lodging in her brain as she started to step aside to give the photographer a better shot ( and keep her cover from being blown). Something about the word bugged her, and not just because the automatic translator was taking its own sweet time figuring out how to say “jelly bean” in Russian. Beans, she repeated, free associating. Jelly beans. Magic beans. Jack and the Beanstalk. Jack the Giant Killer. . . .
Ohmigosh! she realized with a start. Giant-Killer . . . of course! It's the beans! The KGB must have poisoned the jelly beans!
She quickly looked across the room at the anonymous, nondescript aide who had delivered the jar to Reagan. The man's face was slick with perspiration as he stared at Gorbachev with a look of horrified fascination. He wasn't just nervous, Roberta concluded instantly; he looked guilty as hell, like a man who saw his own soul being damned right in front of his eyes. They made him do it, she realized beyond a shadow of a doubt. The KGB got to the Gipper's gofer!
A flashbulb went off, practically in Roberta's face. Reagan and Gorbachev smiled for the camera, and she knew that Gorbachev was only seconds away from tossing a whole handful of poisoned jelly beans into his mouth. His enemies in the Kremlin would no doubt try to pin the blame on the United States, she guessed, maybe even on Reagan himself. Talk about a diplomatic catastrophe! I have to do something right away, she thought frantically, preferably without causing a major international incident. . . .
“Watch out for that cat!” she yelled as shrilly as she could, startling Gorbachev and alerting Isis, who came racing out from beneath the buffet table with a strip of dried haddock between her jaws. The speeding feline zoomed straight across the room and up Gorby's leg, causing him to let go of the jelly beans in surprise and giving Roberta the excuse she needed to “accidentally” drop the entire jar onto the hardwood floor, where it shattered in an explosion of glass and tainted gelatin. “Oops!” she said in Russian, not that anyone was listening except maybe the American translator, Somme
rs, who reached out quickly to steady Roberta. Wow, she thought, surprised by the extennis champ's strength, that's quite a grip she's got.
Letting go of Gorbachev's leg, Isis twisted in the air, landing on her feet in the middle of the crowded reception hall. Freaked-out diplomats scurried away from the demonic black cat, while Secret Service agents and their Russian competitors raced each other to capture the unsanctioned feline, diving for the floor and getting in each other's way even as Isis made a break for it, disappearing under a twelfthcentury Viking couch. “There it went!” Nancy Reagan shouted helpfully, pointing at the gap between the couch and the floor with a forkful of broiled puffin. “Don't let it get away!”
Giddy with relief that disaster had been averted, Roberta fought hard not to giggle as she watched the First Lady's antics with undeniable amusement. Nancy was notoriously superstitious where astrology was concerned. Wonder how she feels about black cats? Roberta thought.
Unnoticed in the confusion, she discreetly toyed with the servo in the pocket of her gray serge business suit, locking an exceiver signal on the intricate circuitry in Isis's sparkling silver collar, so that, by the time the incensed bodyguards succeeded in dragging the hefty whalebone couch away from the wall, there was no sign of the cat at all, merely a wisp or two of a faintly ectoplasmic blue mist. “Good heavens,” Roberta blurted out loud. “This place really is haunted!”
She glanced down at her feet, where the deadly jelly beans were now strewn amid slivers of broken glass. “I'm so sorry, Mr. President, General Secretary,” she said ingenuously, shrugging her shoulders sheepishly. “That animal just came out of nowhere!”
