Two guards opened the doors to the ornate conference room where the Soviet politburo once met. The men waiting inside were silent as Kraiko took his seat at the head of the table. The meeting supposedly was Kraiko’s idea. But they all knew the truth of it. Kraiko played his role to the hilt and motioned Vashin to the podium at the bottom of the table. Arranged on Vashin’s right were the most powerful leaders of Russian organized crime. On his left were the same men of the Security Council who had attended Boris Bakatina’s funeral. But this time, the minister of defense was present, completing their number.
“Mikhail Andreyevich,” Kraiko began, “let me welcome you and your compatriots.” As titular head of the Russian government, Kraiko could still be counted on to perform with some dignity.
“Give the president a drink,” Rodonov said. “It will help his backbone.” Every eye was on him. “We know why we are here.”
“Ah,” Kraiko said, trying to regain control. “The incident in Poland last night.”
“It was an ambush,” Rodonov said, “arranged behind our backs. It was the senseless act of criminals to protect a cargo of drugs and whores.”
Kraiko tried to put the best face on it. “Our military transport aircraft are guaranteed the right of transit by treaty, much like the allies enjoyed with the Berlin corridor during the Cold War. The Poles tried to deny us that right last night. What happened was…”
Rodonov interrupted him. “Murder. Unfortunately, we are involved.”
“You are involved,” Vashin said, “in the rebirth of our country. Soon, Russia will reclaim its rightful place in the world.” Loud applause, mostly from the Mafiya side of the table, echoed over his head.
“Why Poland?” Rodonov demanded.
“Poland is our gateway to Western Europe.”
“For what?” Rodonov demanded. “Your drugs?”
Kraiko was sweating. “Poland has access to the West we lack. We must be able to move through Poland into Europe without interference.”
“And you do this by antagonizing the Poles?” Rodonov replied.
“We spoke to them in a way they understand,” Vashin replied.
“I repeat, why Poland?”
Vashin stared at Rodonov. Few people dared to question him like this. “Because Poland is part of Russia. It is our natural buffer against the West.”
Rodonov interrupted him. “This is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth.”
Vashin spoke with a calm he didn’t feel. “An independent Poland is an insult to Russia. Stalin knew how to deal with that abortion.”
“Ni pizdi,” Rodonov muttered. It was a fine Russian phrase that roughly translated into “don’t bullshit me.” He slapped his hands on the table. “Why Poland?”
The men sitting on Rodonov’s side of the table had the same question. They were masters of reality, or at least what was real in Russia, and it was time for Vashin to take off the gloves. He did. “I want to make Poland the central distribution point for the world’s narcotic industry. That requires total freedom to move our products without interference or monitoring of any kind.” The men listened in silence as Vashin outlined his plan. It was criminal activity on an industrial scale that required a union of legitimate government and organized crime. If it worked as Vashin promised, it would bring a river of money and wealth flooding into Russia, changing the balance of economic power in Europe and Asia.
“And if the Poles object, what then?” Rodonov asked.
“Our brothers in the Polish Mafia will prevent that. They are presenting Adam Lezno and the Polish government with other problems to occupy their time. Soon the Poles will turn to us, more than willing to exchange their lust for freedom for security.” Heads nodded in agreement around the table. Poland would become a tool for rebuilding the Russian empire.
“Poland is only the first step,” Vashin promised. “Follow me and the future is ours.” Only Rodonov did not join the heavy applause that echoed over the room.
The meeting was over and Yaponets escorted Vashin to his waiting car. “Rodonov is a problem,” Yaponets said.
“Sew him up,” Vashin muttered.
“And Kraiko?”
“Not yet. He can still be of some use.”
Brian threw down his pencil in disgust. He hated writing book reports. He glanced at his watch, 9:33. Where was Little Matt? Night study hall was over and he should have been back from the library. He wandered out onto the stoop and joined two other rats who were looking over the rail. There was a commotion in one corner of the quadrangle below them. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“They got Little Matt,” one of the Rats answered. “Someone said they’re going to chair him.”
“Oh, shit,” Brian muttered, wishing he hadn’t bragged during a bullshit session on the stoop about seeing Zeth and Rick Pelton, the regiment’s XO, sucking tongues in the library. He turned and ran for the stairs.
But two upperclassmen were waiting for him. “Go back to your room,” one of them ordered.
“I’m going to the TLA,” Brian said. The TLA was the Tactical Leadership Advisor, the adult officer responsible for each troop.
“You ain’t got a problem for the TLA. Your Rat buddy does.” They backed him slowly along the stoop and into his room. “Next time, keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.” They glared at him menacingly. “This involves Pontowski, not you, so keep the fuckin’ Secret Service out of this. Got it?”
“I got it,” Brian promised. He slammed the door behind him and flopped down on his bunk. “Fuckin’ bastards,” he muttered. He renewed his promise to leave NMMI as soon as possible. He would do it over Family Weekend during the last weekend of September when he saw his mother. Nine days, he thought, starting a countdown calendar. He came to his feet. “Ah, shit,” he moaned. He might be leaving but Little Matt liked NMMI and wanted to stay. Now Little Matt was in trouble because he had shot his mouth off. Tough shit, he told himself. It’s a free country and I can say what I want. “Ah, no,” he moaned to himself. He had to do something, anything. But he didn’t want Little Matt to get in more trouble. The cadets outside might keep him from reporting to the TLA what was happening, but they couldn’t keep him off the phone. He dialed Zeth’s number, hoping the telephones had been turned back on after night study hall. They had.
Zeth answered on the first ring. “Some upperclassmen grabbed Maggot,” he said, using his nickname for Little Matt. “Someone said they’re going to chair him. I didn’t see which way they took him.”
“They used to do it in the Box,” Zeth said. The Box was the quadrangle in the center of Hagerman. “But that’s too risky now. It will get them dismissed big time. They’re probably in the Tunnels where you duked it out.”
“What are they going to do to him?” Brian asked.
“Put a bag over his head,” Zeth answered, “strip him naked, tie him to a chair and spray him with shaving cream.”
“Can they get away with that?”
“Not if I can help it,” Zeth answered. She broke the connection, grabbed her flashlight, and ran for the back of the museum next door to Hagerman Barracks. She skidded down the steps and banged on the door to the Tunnels. “Open up, you freak’n assholes!” she yelled. Nothing. She shone her flashlight on the door. The recently installed lock-and-bolt system, thanks to the Secret Service, would defy a safecracker. “Where did they take him?” she wondered to herself. Then it came to her. She raced for the parade field. She had to hurry. Time was running out before the bugle sounded call to quarters. Ahead of her, on the far side of the parade field, she saw a cluster of dark figures lugging something up to the reviewing stand.