“It is good to be with you, Viktor Pavlovich,” the elder statesman replied, proposing a toast. “We salute your efforts, Comrade General Secretary. To the Motherland.”
The six men joined in a toast, spilling more vodka as the glasses loudly banged together. A discreet chime interrupted the group as Zhilinkhov unwrapped a cigar and sat back in his chair.
Yevstigneyev, responsible for party discipline, went to the massive doors leading to the general secretary’s private quarters.
Zhilinkhov tipped his glass to his lips and swallowed deeply, closely watching the heavy doors. He was surprised to see Colonel General Vranesevic, the GRU commander, standing at the entry.
“Come in, Comrade General,” Zhilinkhov yelled across the room, motioning with his arm outstretched. “You have good news for us, eh?”
Vranesevic, clearly pensive, entered the large, warm room and stood at attention. “Comrade General Secretary, I regret to inform you—”
Zhilinkhov stopped the GRU boss. “Relax, General. Have a seat,” Zhilinkhov said, pointing to the large couch directly across from him. “You will have a Stolichnaya with us, General?”
Vranesevic looked nervous, obviously shaken, as he replied. “Sir, I am afraid I have unpleasant news to report about the two American—”
“What unpleasant news?” Zhilinkhov bellowed, blood vessels bulging from his neck and temples. “Speak out, General! You cannot find the spies?”
“Sir, we have the spies contained.” Vranesevic squirmed uneasily, then continued in a more confident manner. “It is only a matter of time before we kill them.”
“The unpleasant news, General,” Zhilinkhov said more quietly, then raised his voice again. “What is the problem?”
Vranesevic coughed, clearing his throat. “We interrogated the two women at the restaurant where the spies made initial contact—”
“Give me the news, General,” Zhilinkhov ordered. The general secretary had a threatening look on his face.
“The old woman overheard the two spies talking in the kitchen. She speaks reasonable English. The kitchen is very small and it is easy to—”
“What is it?” Zhilinkhov yelled loudly, totally enraged at the GRU commander. “Get on with it!”
Vranesevic looked pale, almost in shock. “She testified, under pressure, that your domestic, the Kremlin resident, reported to the American,” Vranesevic swallowed, “of your intention to bomb the United States.” A rivulet of sweat rolled down the general’s forehead, glistening in the firelight.
Zhilinkhov shoved himself forward in the big easy chair, knocking his drink over. “Who else knows about this?” The general secretary had a malicious look on his face.
Vranesevic looked at the floor, then back to Zhilinkhov before answering. “Only two of my men, sir, and the two restaurant workers, the women.”
Zhilinkhov stared at Vranesevic with piercing eyes. “Are you positive, General? Absolutely positive?”
“Yes, sir,” the GRU officer replied, slightly relieved. “All four are in my office now. They have not talked with anyone, I assure you. My office is under guard until my return, sir.”
“You had better be right, General,” Zhilinkhov said in the low, guttural, vehement voice.
The room was silent as Zhilinkhov contemplated this latest surprise. He picked up the fallen glass and motioned to Yevstigneyev for a fresh drink. He could see the uncertainty in the GRU officer’s face.
“Comrade General,” Zhilinkhov began, smiling, “you will terminate the two women, immediately, and confine your two men in isolation until you hear from me.” Zhilinkhov watched the unblinking general. “Do you understand, clearly, General?”
“Yes. Your orders will be carried out immediately, sir.” Vranesevic started to rise.
“Sit down, General,” Zhilinkhov ordered, beckoning the other Politburo members and the defense minister to join Vranesevic.
The aging politicians, along with Minister Porfir’yev, had been startled by the general secretary’s order to kill the women. The men, hesitant, sat down with Zhilinkhov and the GRU commander. The Politburo members exchanged dour looks but remained quiet.
Zhilinkhov fixed his cold eyes on Vranesevic again, raised his glass to his lips, and talked over the rim.
“Comrade General, you must know how sensitive this information is to our country. Do you not?” Zhilinkhov lowered his glass, then relighted his thick cigar.
“Yes, sir. I fully understand the magnitude of your endeavor, sir,” Vranesevic answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“Good,” Zhilinkhov answered, staring into the general’s pale blue eyes. “Then there won’t be any misunderstandings between us, General.”
Vranesevic looked perplexed. “Misunderstandings, sir?”
Zhilinkhov leaned forward again, exhaling smoke in the officer’s face. “Only the seven of us in this room know, or will know, about our operation. Correct, General?”
“Yes, sir,” Vranesevic replied, “I understand completely, sir.” The rivulet of sweat had returned, gleaming anew.
Zhilinkhov had reserved his harshest obloquy.
“Not completely, General,” Zhilinkhov responded, the vehement voice returning. “You will rue this day if the cowardly spies are not dead by this time tomorrow. Use everything at your disposal, including the spetsnaz commandos, but capture and kill the Americans. Twenty-four hours, General,” Zhilinkhov continued in the menacing tone, “or I will personally see you executed!”
Zhilinkhov leaped out of his chair, mouth quivering. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
Vranesevic, visibly shaken, replied with a hoarse croak. “Yes, Comrade General Secretary. I will take my leave and personally see to the—”
“Twenty-four hours, General!” Zhilinkhov pointed his pudgy finger in Vranesevic’s face as the GRU officer quickly rose from the couch and rushed for the two huge doors.
The GRU commander didn’t want to tell the general secretary that he was already using a spetsnaz commando unit.
As the massive doors closed, Zhilinkhov turned to his coterie. “We will be okay. Our plan is intact, my friends.”
The room remained quiet a few seconds as the fire crackled, popping occasionally. Aleksandr Pulaev spoke first.
“We have been compromised, Viktor Pavlovich. We simply don’t know if this information has leaked out somewhere bef—”
Zhilinkhov interrupted, feeling the need to instill confidence quickly. “We have not been compromised, my friends. The only possible obstacle, in my view, would be the escape of the American spies.”
“That is the point, Viktor Pavlovich,” the friend of many years explained. “If they are allowed to escape, you, all of us, will be ruined.”
Zhilinkhov looked at Dichenkovko, then the defense minister, then the three current Politburo members. He stared into the fireplace for a long moment, then spoke in his menacing tone.
“They will not escape me!” Zhilinkhov never flinched as the crystal tumbler shattered in his powerful grasp.
Both agents lay sprawled on the riverbank, shivering and gasping for air. They had broken through twelve feet of thin ice to reach the muddy shore.
Wickham’s right arm, though useless to him, was completely numb and caused very little pain now.
“Dimitri,” Wickham asked, “can you make it up to the brush line?”
Dimitri rolled his head over, tilting it back to see up the steep slope. Light snowflakes fell on his face, hampering his vision.
“Y-yes,” Dimitri shivered in reply. “I can m-make it to the top okay.”
Dimitri and Wickham pulled themselves up the muddy incline, inch by inch, digging their fingers deep into the soggy ooze. Wickham, using only his left arm, struggled to keep his balance.