Several uniformed NKVD officers rushed up to the car, forming a protective circle around Beria and Maggie, all shouting reports as to what happened. There was a power outage. There was the smell of gas. An electrical fire, perhaps.
Sorensen, Maggie thought. He’s an electrician. He fucks with the power, which kills any hardwired null generators around the building. He goes in, messes with the gas. Heads up to Beria’s darkened office, and…
She turned to Beria. “What did you have in your office?”
“What?” Beria said absently as he gazed up at the burning building.
“What did you have in your office?” she pressed, getting in front of his face. “Papers, documents, records, any of it. What did you have there?”
He finally focused on her, looking quizzical. “Everything regarding the program was in my safe. It is fireproof and locked.”
“Is it?” Maggie asked. She turned and ran toward the burning building, scanning the ground in front of her as she went.
There.
On the sidewalk below the burning building was a hunk of metal, about three feet by four feet and a good six inches thick, with a combination lock on the front. The hinges on the side were twisted and ripped apart.
Katie. Shit.
Maggie turned back toward Beria, but saw several other limousines approaching, the flags of the Party and the Red Army flapping from the front fenders. The Politburo wasn’t wasting any time. She ran forward again, hoping she could help defuse the situation before everything fell apart.
By the time she rejoined Beria, Nikita Khrushchev was jabbing his finger at the First Deputy Premier, with Marshal Zhukov by his side. “If you cannot maintain your own personal security, and the security of your headquarters — let alone keep our socialist allies abroad in line — how do you expect to continue in your position?” Khrushchev demanded.
Maggie reached out with her Empowerment to try to calm Khrushchev down — the man had a notorious temper — but found she couldn’t sense the threads of his emotions. At all.
She quickly looked around — someone had a null generator going, she was sure of it, and the thought made her feel intensely vulnerable and jumpy. Yet in all the chaos — firefighters, NKVD and MGB men, Red Army officers, party officials, gawkers, and onlookers — she couldn’t make anybody.
Meanwhile, Beria was pleading his case — assuming he still dealt from a position of strength. Maggie cringed inwardly. This wasn’t going to end up well.
“Comrade Khrushchev, I promise you, all of this is a ruse. Yes, a ruse! There are counterrevolutionary elements within the NKVD and MGB who would seek to return the Motherland to its tsarist ways! All of this, I promise you, is part of an operation to flush out these elements, to bring them to the light of day! Even now, I have agents fanning out across the city, tracking them down and bringing them to justice!”
Khrushchev looked nonplussed at best, while Marshal Zhukov — the Soviet Union’s preeminent World War II military hero — looked ready to haul off and punch Beria in the nose. “Comrade Beria, you will report to the Kremlin tomorrow at 9 a.m. — sharp—so that we may begin an inquiry into these events. And you will have proof of this operation, and results!”
“Of course, Comrade Khrushchev,” Beria replied with a practiced smile, and Maggie knew then, even without her ability, that Beria would make his move then.
“Marshal Zhukov has already taken command of the East German situation, on the orders of Comrade Malenkov,” Khrushchev continued. “The uprising will be put down immediately. You no longer have a role to play there, and will not impede this. Do you understand?”
Beria nodded, and Khrushchev turned on his heel and got back in his limousine, Zhukov in tow. The fact that Soviet policy had just been made, there on the street in front of a burning building, amazed Maggie. Score one for MAJESTIC-12, she thought. They’ll have a hard time getting another, though.
As the Party and Red Army cars sped off, Maggie went to Beria’s side. “Orders, Comrade?”
Grim-faced and seething inside — the null field was no longer active — Beria turned to Maggie. “We mobilize now. Tell Illyanov to get moving. We are all at the Kremlin by 8:30 tomorrow morning. All of us. Our time has come.”
19
It was a rare thing for Frank to feel good about his job. Everything about working for MAJESTIC-12 was, at best, morally gray, and always ended up as a collection of partial victories combined with sacrifice and stomach-churning worry.
So to watch thousands upon thousands of East Germans, camped out in Potsdamer Platz, with bonfires burning in the predawn light, singing and laughing and enjoying these tantalizing moments of promise and pride — it was enough to get him all teary-eyed.
“What is it, Franz?” Max said, wrapping his arm around Frank’s shoulders. “We did it! We are here, now, finally standing up for ourselves. For the first time in my life!”
Frank nodded and gave the young man a half-hug. “It’s beautiful, my friend. I just hope they listen to you. To us.”
“Of course they will,” Max said, raising his beer skyward. There was a lot of beer out there. “We are the proletariat! We are the workers and farmers and laborers. It is our government. They will listen to us!”
Frank’s stomach shifted a little as he thought ahead to what might come. Communist rule in the Eastern Bloc hadn’t really been tested before. For years after the war, people seemed satisfied with any government that would just get them some food, a roof, and a job. But that was eight years ago now. Maybe this was it. The start of something bigger. Maybe all the missions in Czechoslovakia, Poland, Syria, Guatemala, Egypt, China… maybe he and his fellow Variants really had made a difference. Maybe it all led up to this moment, where the people finally took matters into their own hands.
“Yes, Max,” Frank said, clinking his bottle with Max’s. “Maybe this is it. I hope it is.”
Max gave Frank a full-on hug that squeezed the breath out of him, then went off to find others with whom to celebrate. Frank downed the remainder of his beer and went to go look for another one. But before he found one, his wallet began buzzing — four short bursts from the radio hidden inside it.
Four bursts. Rendezvous point ASAP.
Frank looked around immediately for signs of trouble, tamping down on his Enhancement to avoid unwanted commentary. A few snippets slipped through, though. No change in police numbers. Only two obvious Stasi infiltrators in sight. He half-expected another “kill them all” to come through, but nothing this time. It felt like the voices wanted to be heard, but also useful. Like they were on their best behavior.
Frank shook his head and slowly meandered toward the rendezvous point, a park on the corner of Charlottenstrasse and Krausenstrasse. He weaved around various groups of protesters and celebrants, finding a way to constantly check his back, to make sure he wasn’t followed. It took a good twenty minutes to get there, but by the time he arrived, he was certain nobody had tailed him.
Danny was there, sitting alone by a fountain, away from revelers. Even dressed like a poor student, he somehow managed to stick out with nervous energy. Danny’s head was on a swivel, and he checked his watch three times from when Frank saw him until he finally walked up and took a seat.