The other man nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Minister.”
“Very well. You may go. But I’ll expect your written report on my desk by tomorrow morning. Make sure that it is complete and clear. I don’t have any more time to waste on fluff and nonsense.” Desaix turned his attention to the documents piled high in front of him, ignoring the special ambassador’s abrupt, red-faced departure.
He made a mental note to have the man assigned to the next undesirable diplomatic posting that opened up. Somewhere as far from France as possible.
Desaix didn’t mind the ambassador’s failure in Poland so much. After all, he’d more than half expected it. The Poles were too stiff-necked and too stupid to join the Franco-German monetary union voluntarily. What irked him most was Bourcet’s pointless attempt to disguise the truth by spouting a lot of meaningless gibberish.
He could forgive a man who failed. He would not forgive a man who mistook him for a fool.
Nicolas Desaix dismissed the matter from his mind in favor of a more immediate and important concern. Specifically the mulish resistance to the new European order he was trying to create.
In the weeks since France and Germany reached agreement on a common currency, his emissaries had fanned out across the continent. Nations with economies in hock to either Paris or Berlin were reminded of that sad fact and urged to join the new monetary union. So far, all were bowing to the inevitable. Other countries, those aligned with the “free trade” bloc, had proved far less cooperative. One by one, they’d rejected the chance to change sides in the world’s ongoing trade war.
Every refusal angered Desaix, but he found the Polish, Czech, and Slovak stance especially infuriating. Their stubborn adherence to national sovereignty and open markets encouraged agitators in other Eastern European countries who opposed closer ties with France. With American backing, they were becoming a rallying point for the anti-French sentiment slowly spreading through the region. And that made them dangerous.
No one knew better than he how fragile the coalition he envisioned would be — at least during the first few months of its existence. The slightest setback or unexpected check might shatter it, leaving France even more isolated in a sea of hostile neighbors. It would take time to weld a confederation of unpopular, unelected governments into a strong, united whole. Polish, Czech, and Slovak intransigence threatened to rob him of that time.
Desaix’s frown deepened. He could not allow that to happen. If political leaders in the three countries would not join a new European alliance voluntarily, they would have to be coerced. They’d either fold under pressure or find themselves abandoned by their own people.
His sour expression disappeared, replaced by a narrow, unpleasant smile. The ignorant Poles and their southernmost neighbors might feel themselves secure behind their thin screen of American and British military aid. But he knew differently.
He picked up a secure phone. “Put me through to the Russian Embassy. I want to speak with the ambassador himself.”
Alex Banich stuck his head inside the lioness’s den at her request. “You rang?”
“Yep. Wait one, okay?” Erin McKenna spoke without looking away from her glowing computer monitor. Her fingers flashed across the keyboard parked in her lap, entering new data or making new demands on an already overtaxed system.
“Sure.” Banich leaned against the doorjamb, folded his arms, and watched her work. He fought off a yawn.
The Commerce Department analyst looked as tired as he felt. Her eyes were shadowed and bloodshot, the product of too many hours spent staring at tiny print and endless columns of figures. Even her long, auburn hair looked mussed. She sometimes wrapped her ponytail around her fingers when she thought no one was looking. He’d even caught her chewing isolated strands while she sat lost in thought, trying hard to piece together a coherent picture from fragments of fact, rumor, and pure guesswork.
The months since Russia declared martial law had flown by in a dizzying, exhausting cycle of busy days and work-filled nights. The CIA’s Moscow Station had been understaffed and overworked even before Marshal Kaminov and his cronies made their move. Now, with personnel restrictions in place on all foreign embassies, and with all freedoms greatly restricted, things were even worse. Neither of them could waste time or energy arguing for the sheer, cussed joy of it.
So, partly out of necessity and partly out of sheer fatigue, they’d negotiated an uneasy truce and a practical division of labor. Banich focused his efforts on the military and political side of the spectrum, while McKenna concentrated on trade and economic developments.
So far at least, she had been more successful. Her contacts inside the Russian Ministries of Trade and Finance were civilians with a reformist streak who weren’t happy under military rule. They fed her a fairly steady stream of raw trade and economic data — some classified, some unclassified, and some just hard to find without help.
Banich wasn’t as fortunate. He was being run ragged just trying to maintain his cover as Nikolai Ushenko without being bankrupted in the process. Backed by army decrees, the government ministries he supplied made constant demands for more food at below-market prices. These new price controls made it impossible for him to bargain for sensitive information. By wiping out his profit margins, they were also siphoning away the resources he needed to buy secrets from a corrupt few still willing to sell them.
Still, he’d had a little luck recently. Like Erin, he’d made several promising contacts on the civilian side of the Russian government. Even inside the Defense Ministry there were officials who despised the army’s heavy-handed attempt to reimpose Stalinist discipline and central planning. And there were persistent rumors that Russia’s President — now only a figurehead under constant GRU surveillance — still hoped he could regain effective control over his country.
Banich dismissed those rumors as simple wishful thinking. Kaminov had relearned an old lesson of Russian politics: the one with the biggest guns governs. He and his fellow marshals were too firmly dug in to be ousted easily or bloodlessly. And with the West hopelessly divided against itself, there wasn’t any realistic prospect of sustained outside pressure for a return to democratic rule.
Erin finished her typing with a final, triumphant stab at the keyboard, punched the print key, and slewed her chair around to face him. “Thanks. I needed to get some ideas down before they wandered off in a gray fog somewhere up here.” She tapped her forehead.
“No problem.” He thought about straightening up and then decided against it. Leaning up against the door felt too good. “Now, what can I do for you? Kidnap the Minister of Trade? Swipe the Czar’s crown jewels? Or did you have something tougher in mind? Like talking Kutner into buying you a bigger computer?”
The corners of her mouth tilted upward in a quick, amused smile. “Not exactly. Though those aren’t bad ideas.”
She turned serious. “What I really need is your brain.”
“Shoot.”
Her tired eyes twinkled at that. “Sorry, I haven’t got a gun.” She ignored his groan. He wasn’t the only one allowed to make bad jokes. “Anyway, I think I’m starting to see a pattern in some of the data we’re collecting, but I need to bounce it off somebody to see if it makes any sense. Especially somebody who was born cynical.”
“Meaning me, I suppose.”
Erin nodded. “Meaning you.”
“Okay.” Banich approved of her instincts. In this business it was all too easy to fall blindly in love with your own theories. That was dangerous, because those theories rested on evidence that was, almost by definition, piecemeal, uncertain, and often contradictory. A good intelligence officer was always willing to give someone else the chance to punch holes in a piece of prized analysis.