Vladimir Kalinin walked briskly into the General Secretary’s office to find several members of the Kollegiya already assembled there, all nervously pacing the floor or circling the conference table. They began to take seats immediately — obviously they had all been waiting for KGB chief Kalinin’s arrival. Boris Mischelevka, the Foreign Minister, sat at the head of the conference table and presided over the meeting.
“The General Secretary is en route from West Germany,” Mischelevka began. “He has directed me to begin this meeting and assemble the entire Kollegiya at ten A.M. tomorrow morning when he arrives. He will expect a briefing on our meeting first thing in the morning.
“This deals, of course, with the incident that took place yesterday morning in the United States. A fighter aircraft was stolen from a top-secret research center and flown through Central America to Nicaragua after a stop in Mexico. Apart from that information we have no details.” Mischelevka turned immediately to Kalinin and asked if he could explain what had happened.
“I believe this should wait for the General Secretary,” Kalinin said. “I see no reason for three separate meetings.”
“The reason is simply that the General Secretary wants it,” Mischelevka told him. “Obviously he intends that we be able to explain to the various governments involved what is going on.”
Kalinin said nothing at first. The Americans called it “damage control”—everyone get their story straight and coordinated before going outside the government. With foreign journalists flooding Moscow and a press center set up in the Kremlin itself, “damage control” was more and more important nowadays … “All I can tell you is that the incident involved a Soviet helicopter and a Soviet airbase in Nicaragua. That is all I can discuss here until I brief the General Secretary.”
“We need more than that, Kalinin,” Mischelevka said. “I have received a dozen demands for explanations from several countries, including, naturally, the United States. It is important that we respond—”
“You will respond when the General Secretary decides you will respond. I will not release any information until the classification of that information is determined—”
“But we must brief—”
“Brief no one. Is that clear enough?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Mischelevka asked. “What’s going on? Is this a special KGB operation in Central America? What …?”
“You will please not discuss your opinions of the incident either,” Kalinin snapped. “Say nothing. Glasnost does not apply here.” With that, Kalinin got up and walked out.
They’re like sheep, Kalinin thought as he quickly exited the dark halls of the Kremlin. They have been lulled into complacency by the garbage that has been fed to them over the years, that openness was good, that secret information is free to all for the asking. They were going to be this government’s downfall…
And when it had fallen, with a little help from patriots like himself, he was going to be the leader of a return to the old, traditional ways, to the future world eminence of the Soviet Union.
Arlington, Virginia
The Barrel Factory Racquet Club used to be just that — an old factory and warehouse that, in pre-Prohibition days, made casks and barrels for beer and wine. It was one of the worst eyesores in the Washington, D.C., area for decades until Arlington’s renaissance in the late 1980s and early nineties, when it was remodeled into a first-class tennis, racquetball and health club. But the area kept its old slum reputation, so the Barrel Factory was having a tough time attracting members.
But for National Security Adviser Deborah O’Day, the place was perfect for many reasons. The dues were modest, it was easy to get a racquetball court — especially during the week after seven P.M. — and the usual D.C. crowd avoided the place. She could take off the White House senior-staff facade and act like a normal human being, and as such was rarely recognized — all of which made the place ideal for an occasional surreptitious meeting.
She tossed a couple of the soft blue rubber balls out into the court and chased them, jogging up and down the court to loosen her ankles. She was pleased with how flexible and fit her body was, even at fifty-one. Exercise was never important to her until just before learning that she was being considered for the NSC position. No one much cared what you looked like as U.N. ambassador, but as part of the White House staff her image had to merge much better with that of the President, and that image was relatively young, lean and mean.
She crash-dieted during her last few weeks in New York, begging off all the bon voyage parties that she could. During the confirmation hearings, she had no time for any meals anyway, so dieting was very easy then. The same was true for her first few months in Washington. Now that the dust had settled a bit, she found that her once-a-week trips to the gym were invaluable and at times virtual life-savers. She enjoyed the challenges. relished the appreciative glances of the men in the club (some less than half her age), and felt good when she looked around the room during the White House staff meetings and knew that she could probably whip half the men in that room on the tennis or squash courts.
These late-night trips also had other valuable uses — such as tonight.
She had finished stretching out and had begun hitting the ball around when she heard a tap behind her. A tall, dark-haired, pear-shaped man in an old gray sweatsuit, elbow and knee pads, brand-new Reebok tennis shoes, wearing eye protectors and carrying an old aluminum-framed racquet, was tapping on the back Plexiglas wall of her court.
Just as he began tapping again, from seemingly out of nowhere Marine Corps Major Marcia Preston moved behind him. She was dressed in a red jogging suit, a towel wrapped around her neck and carrying an open gym bag — which, Deborah O’Day knew, contained a Browning PM-40B automatic machine pistol with a twenty-round clip and laser sight. The pear-shaped fellow seemed to sense someone behind him and turned to face Marcia. If he made the wrong move, Marcia could disable him in a few seconds or kill him in less time. They exchanged glances, and Marcia Preston never got closer than a few feet from him, but there was no doubt that the man knew he had been efficiently intercepted.
But at a slight hand motion from O’Day, Marcia moved on past as if she hadn’t noticed he was there. O’Day could see the man nervously swallow, then open the half-size door to the court and step inside. Major Preston went over to the drinking fountain nearby, wandered around looking in the other courts, then disappeared back into her previous unobtrusive hiding place.
“Marcia is her usual charming self, I see,” the man deadpanned, watching the major’s retreating figure. He was already sweating, and they hadn’t played one point yet. He turned and checked out Deborah O’Day in the same way he had just appraised Marcia Preston. “You’re looking pretty foxy yourself, kid.”
“Cool it, Marty, let’s play. You warmed up?”
“For this ridiculous sport, no,” Marty Donatelli said. “For some information, yes.”
“We can chat while we play. At least pretend to be trying,” she said, gently hitting a ball off the front wall toward Donatelli. “Besides, it’ll do you some good. You could stand to lose a few inches off that middle.”
He took a huge roundhouse swipe at the ball, caroming it off three walls, but he placed it right back in the center of the court. O’Day chased it down easily and sent it back right to Donatelli. “The front page goes to bed in two hours, lover. Can we make this quick?”
“I don’t care about the front page, and I’m sure as hell not your lover.” O’Day hit the ball back perfectly in the left corner; it bounded off the left wall, the front wall, then promptly hit the floor and died. “Okay. You serve. We’ll talk.”