The Mirror Maze

by James P. Hogan

  “Yes, it is. What of it?” Eva’s voice was calm—firm, but not icy.

  “What of it? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Don’t you think that it might just happen to be a little bit of my goddam business?”

  “Why?”

  Mel stared at her disbelievingly. “Why? Why do you think, for chrissakes? When my girl gets cards from other guys fixing up—”

  “Mel.” The sudden sharpness of her tone stopped him short. “I’ve told you before not to get any wrong ideas. I like you a lot and I like your company, but I’ve never said anything about cutting myself off from the rest of humanity or agreeing to become anyone’s property. If you’ve jumped to some other conclusions, I’m sorry, but I never gave you any reason for making those kinds of assumptions.”

  Mel shook his head and looked at her incredulously as he took his things off the laundry basket and began pulling them on. “You bet I’m putting some clothes on. You bet I’m getting out of here just as fast as I can… You don’t understand, do you? I really went for you. It could have been just us, know what I mean? Something special. So, what’s the matter with you? Aren’t I good enough? What are you, man crazy or something? Is that the problem?”

  Eva sat in the basket chair by the window. “I think it’s you who doesn’t understand, Mel. Yes, I think a lot of you.”

  “Yeah, right… It sure shows.” He pushed a foot into his jeans.

  “This may come as a surprise in your present state of mind, but no, I don’t go to bed with every man I like. But if I choose to, then it’s my business. I own my body, my mind, and my life. If you’re looking for someone to build a mutual prison with out of obligations and guilt, someone you can own and enslave yourself to in return, then that’s fine, but you’re talking to the wrong person.”

  “What do you take me for? Do you think I’m some kind of performing pet dog that you can stand in line… who’ll come running with his tail wagging when you snap your fingers next time?” Mel sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his shoes. “No way, lady! I do have a little piece of something called ‘pride,’ which you’ve obviously never heard of.” He stood up and fought his way into his T-shirt. “So when he goes back this time, don’t bother calling. And don’t hold your breath waiting for me to call you. The sun might have gone out by then.”

  “It’s a pity you feel that way…” Eva refused to be provoked, which made it all the more infuriating. “You’re right. I should have told you about Dave. I almost did a couple of times… but I didn’t because I got the feeling something like this would happen.”

  “Does he know about me?” Mel demanded, making it sound like a challenge.

  “Yes.”

  Mel hadn’t expected that. His confusion increased. “Oh, really? So how come you can talk about things like that to him but not to me? He’s older, is that it? What am I supposed to be, then, just a kid who wouldn’t be able to handle it?”

  “You are making that rather obvious.” Eva covered her eyes with a hand and went on before Mel had a chance to react. “We’ve known each other for some time. You may not understand this, Mel, but he’d rather think of me being free to have some warmth and affection and somebody to be close to in my life when I need it. He likes to think Im happy. I’m not something he owns, that has an obligation to make him happy. Doesn’t that sound more like loving somebody than what you’re talking about?”

  “Well, enjoy. I never was much into sainthood,” Mel said as he moved toward the door. “And have a nice day.” He went into the main lounge to retrieve the bag he had put down the night before, then crossed to the front door. As he opened it, he turned to survey the scene of book-laden shelves, tables, and chairs, boxes overflowing with papers, and clutter around the computer, which he had no doubt he was seeing for the last time. He closed the door with a satisfying bang, and descended the stairs to the yard at the rear of The Viennese, where he had parked his car.

  CHAPTER 24

  In his office in the KGB’s headquarters building in Lubyanka on Dzherzhinsky square, a few blocks from the Kremlin, Oleg Kordorosky, deputy chairman of the KGB, tossed the report down on the desk in front of him. “This is a disgrace to your directorate. I want them found, and I want the people responsible identified and apprehended by whatever means are necessary. One thing I’m certain of is that heads will roll over this—theirs or yours. Do I make myself clear, General?”

  Goryanin sat stiffly in the upright wooden chair opposite. A heavy artillery unit in Hungary that had been issued with nuclear-explosive shells—kept locked in concrete vaults and under guard at all times during nonemergency conditions—had been unable to account for two of them when a routine inspection was carried out in September. As head of the Second Chief Directorate, which concerned itself, among other things, with the security of classified information on advanced Soviet weaponry, Goryanin knew that finding out what had happened was part of his job—although the implication that the loss somehow represented a personal failure on his part was hardly called for, since the responsibility for equipment supplied to the operational military command was not his. “Colonel Chelenko is conducting an expert analysis of other incidents that might be related, to see if any pattern emerges,” he said. “There were some SA-37s shipped for dismantling earlier in the year—”

  “I don’t want expert analyses, I want results. Put Chelenko on it full-time and see that he gets whatever additional assistance he needs.”

  Goryanin nodded.

  “That will be all for now. I expect to see some positive results by the end of next week.”

  Kordorosky had a pale, blotchy face with thin red hair and colorless eyes, devoid of expression, that gave him an inhuman, bloodless appearance that Goryanin always found chilling. His progress upward through the ranks of the KGB had shown him to be admirably endowed with the traditional qualifications of ruthlessness, the capacity for intrigue, and treachery, and it was no secret that his sole drive now was to oust the incumbent chairman and take over the organization. Goryanin, by contrast, was an intellectual, originally from an engineering background, who had been drawn into the KGB through its growing need for technical expertise to keep up with a changing, modern world. Kordorosky eyed him with a predator’s innate suspicion of ability sensed as a potential threat, yet recognized at the same time as indispensable. It was the kind of insecurity that sought constantly to control.

  As Goryanin rose to leave, Kordorosky said, “You may be Defense Minister Androliev’s nephew, but that won’t count for anything when I’m in command here. I go only by performance…” He paused for a second, then added in a curious voice, “And besides, he and his soft-line generals might not be around for very much longer. ” He made it sound almost as if he wanted Goryanin to pass the tip-off to his uncle. To induce the aging marshal to do the sensible thing and stand down now, perhaps? To save others the inconvenience and risk of complications by having to do it forcibly?…

  Goryanin’s concern grew as he made his way downstairs to the directorate’s offices two floors below, and fitted the implications into perspective along with the other things that rumor, experience, and instinct told him were going on.

  The strongest and most rigid geometric figure is the triangle. From the Eiffel tower to the framework of any railroad bridge, engineering uses triangles universally to produce structures of strength and stability. And the same is true of political structures. Political systems based on division of power and the interplay of three balancing forces have been the most stable and enduring throughout history.

  Ever since the Soviet Union’s inception, outsiders had been looking at the problems confronting it and predicting its imminent collapse. But it had survived four years of struggle against the Russian Army; it survived the mutiny of the Baltic Fleet, which had helped bring about the Revolution; it survived the mass exodus of its intelligentsia, the opposition of the peasants, the Civil War, the slaughter of millions during the period of forced collectivization, and endless blo
ody purges. It had also withstood diplomatic isolation and political blockade, the enslavement of millions of its own citizens, and the decimation of its officer corps, followed immediately by an unexpected onslaught by 190 of Hitler’s divisions—and emerged from it all to achieve military parity with the United States. So it didn’t do to be too hasty about burying the Soviet regime.

  The political system of the USSR was based on a triangle of forces. The three corners of the triangle were the Party, the Army, and the KGB. Each of these possessed enormous power, but power which could be exceeded by the combined strength of the other two. Of the three, the Party had the fewest resources for self-defense in an open conflict. But to counter this weakness, it had the lever at its disposal of authorizing the appointment of all officials—every general of the Army and every colonel of the KGB could be posted, promoted, and demoted only with the approval of the Party’s Central Committee. This right was supported by both of the Party’s rivals; for if that privilege were to pass to either of them, then the other would be in mortal danger, and both of them knew it.

  The system thus functioned as a tripod that would stand, provided that none of its legs tried to extend itself too far. Whenever this began to happen, the other two immediately intervened to chop off the excess. There were many examples of the process in action, even in comparatively recent history.

  When Stalin died in 1953, observers concluded that Beria, the feared head of the predecessor organization to the KGB, would take command. He possessed files on every senior party official and general that would have enabled him to put any one of them before a firing squad. But it was this very power which destroyed him. The Party and the Army, understanding their joint predicament, executed the chief executioner and eliminated the heads of his security apparatus. But this released one of the two leashes around the Army’s neck. Marshal Zhukov, the legendary commander of World War II fame, began acquiring extraordinary powers at home and abroad, and demanded the removal of all political commissars from the Army’s units—to shake off the leash remaining. The Party and the newly formed KGB promptly closed ranks, Zhukov was dismissed, and the military machine drastically pruned. This extended the Party leg of the tripod to an alarming degree, and in response the impossible happened when the two mortal enemies, the Army and the KGB, united to bring down the Party’s head, Khrushchev, who fell almost without a sound. And in the era that followed, the regime had survived Czechoslovakia, Vietnam, repeated Middle East crises, Poland, and Afghanistan. The secret of Brezhnev’s survival lay in his skill at maintaining the triangular balance, restraining any two of its sides from combining against the third.

  But now there were ominous shiftings of loyalties and all kinds of dealings going on behind the scenes. The feelings that Goryanin’s uncle had expressed after the dinner at the dacha—that what was happening in America represented an opportunity to escape from the tramline that had been trapping everyone on a course for disaster, and should be seized eagerly—was typical of how many of the military high command felt. They understood the awesome destructiveness of modern weapons and were under no illusions as to what an all-out conflict with the West would mean. Furthermore, they had the least to fear from a radical restructuring of the regime, or even its complete demise as a recognizable political entity. For the Party and the KGB leadership knew full well that if Communism should collapse, they would in all probability be shot by their own countrymen. But that wouldn’t happen to the Army.

  Hence the Party and the upper echelons of the KGB had much to be concerned about in the prospect of seeing the American economy unfettered, which would lead to expansion of industrial and scientific innovation on a scale that no regimented system could match. This would translate into unchallengeable military and economic superiority, putting a permanent end to any hopes of eventual world revolution. In the view of many that Goryanin had talked to personally, a war sooner than later—before the disadvantages became tangible—would be the preferable alternative. And if Kordorosky’s remark meant that Androliev and his supporters were being quietly moved aside to make way for a new cadre of top military who would go along with the harder line, then it was already as good as official policy.

  CHAPTER 25

  The valley lay broad and shallow between rounded, sunbaked hills, an arid desolation of sand, boulders, stunted acacias, and thorn bushes, which except for the camp, had remained essentially unchanged in appearance for a thousand years.

  The camp consisted of several rows of barrack huts painted lime green, along with workshops, storerooms, a transportation depot, and communal facilities, standing inside a fifteen-foot-high double chain-link fence topped by barbed wire. An inner compound contained a two-story headquarters building, officers quarters, and an armory.

  The sounds of shouted orders and the irregular coughing of a truck engine trying to start came in through the barred; window. From farther away, the intermittent chattering of a machine gun firing on the flats beyond the end of the ridge that ran behind the camp. Short bursts of three or four seconds. Probably the squad that had marched out at daybreak, practicing at the range that was somewhere in that direction.

  Brett Vorland sat pen in hand at the wooden table by the wall of the quarters in which he was being confined, an open mathematical textbook propped before him, and a large notepad lying open, its pages covered with symbols and equations. For a prisoner, from the things he’d heard and read, his treatment could have been a lot worse. The quarters consisted of two rooms, clean and airy, if somewhat simply furnished—although it did contain a TV—and he had been liberally supplied with books, magazines, and occasional chess and cards partners from among the guards and recruits. He had begun teaching English to some of them in return for odd favors. Security was about as rigorous as it needed to be in view of his conspicuous appearance, the remoteness of the location, and the harshness of the surroundings. Exactly why he had been brought here had never been made clear. He guessed that with his specialized knowledge of American defensive systems, he was a bargaining chip in some kind of game being played thousands of miles away.

  With ample time to reflect on the things that had happened in recent years, he felt a lot older now. Older, and belatedly wiser. The realization of his own gullibility still caused him to wince inwardly when he allowed himself to think about it too much. It was his paranoia—there was no kinder word for it—that the influence of the far right would plunge the world into all-out war upon the ungodly that had set him up. That was what had made him easily persuadable that the leaderships of both sides were insane, and that the certain recipe for catastrophe was to leave global destructive power in the hands of either of them. He could hear some of Oberwald’s words now. “We represent an unaligned association of concerned and influential people, who have no allegiance to any particular flag,, creed, system, or ideology. We are an organization that transcends nationalism, which is committed to reason, sanity, and the creation of a better future for the entire human race. We believe that can be achieved, but not while the concentrations of destructive power that exist today remain in present hands. This is where we believe that you can help us, Mr. Vorland. As you know, I occupy a position that is not without some influence in the machinery that decides the strategic policy of the United States…”

  It had been exactly what a million young people with high ideals and no experience of the world were waiting to hear. And Brett had fallen for it. Now he was being held captive in a remote part of Syria, a client state of the Soviets, which meant that Oberwald had been a front for them all along. The chilling thought was, how many more like Oberwald might there be, working in the nation’s most trusted top circles? Brett had pondered for weeks on why, but a consistent motive had eluded him. Why would those who had apparently gained the most from a system, and who would apparently stand to lose the most, be among the most ardent working for its destruction?

  Keys rattling in the lock made him look up. The door opened, and Hamashad, one of the guards, came i
n, carrying a tray with Brett’s evening meal: greasy soup, a meat-and-vegetable concoction in a spicy sauce with rice, dark bread, strong tea, and some fruit. Hamashad was a little on the chubby side for Brett’s conception of a Palestinian guerrilla, with deep olive skin, large brown eyes, and a clipped mustache. He was wearing combat fatigues with a British-style webbing belt and sidearm, and on his head a red-and-white kaffiyeh. There was nothing of the crazed fanatic in his manner, and he had always treated Brett considerately—maybe on orders.

  “Lamb with curry,” Hamashad said. “Very good. You see, we good hotel, yes? Take good care.”

  “Okay,” Brett said knowingly. “I’ll give you a star. What’s the deal? What do you want?”

  Hamashad grinned. “No movie tonight. Guys very sad. Movie box, it bust. You see if fix? Can do okay?” Being able to fix the barracks VCR and other odds and ends was something else that Brett had gained a reputation for. When none of the orthodox Muslim officers were about, the favorite fare was X-rated stuff smuggled in from Europe.

  “What’s the chance of a couple of Budweisers?”

  “Bud-veisser? What is that?”

  “American beer. Find me a cool beer and I’ll think about it. Can do okay?”

  “No beer here. Very strict.” At the same time Hamashad pointed at the ceiling, winked, and nodded his head.

  Brett understood: the room was bugged. “Okay,” he said with a sigh. “Get an okay from the chief and I’ll come across with you after supper.”

  Hamashad came back an hour later with another guard, whom he sent away with Brett’s empty tray. Then Hamashad led Brett out of the headquarters building, and they began crossing the inner compound toward the cluster of buildings containing the canteen, transportation depot, and repair shops. “Maybe can do Russian beer,” Hamashad said in a low voice. “Is not allowed, but who knows? Might find. Is okay, maybe?”