The bar was a dark, noisy den nestled among the area's strip joints and discos, a place where two casually dressed men could meet, have a drink and talk while attracting no more attention than a couple of spotted cows in an Alpine pasture.
Stern arrived first and chose a corner table that offered the maximum in privacy. He ordered Jack Daniel and water. He was joined shortly by an older man with a pronounced paunch, something occasioned by the loss of a prized perk, an exercise room where he had previously kept fit and trim. Unfortunately, that was not the only loss he had suffered from the tumultuous aftermath to the ill-fated Moscow coup. With a brief handshake, he took his seat and cast a searching gaze about the smoke-shrouded room. Incorrectly interpreting the look, a waiter with a Hitler-style brush of a mustache hurried over to take his order. Vodka.
"I checked the accounts," said General Valeri Zakharov. "Everything appears to be in order."
Stern's grin was even more one-sided than usual. He had a perverse sense of humor, the kind that led to snickers during the most intense scenes of a thriller movie. "Have we ever short-changed you, General?" he asked.
Stern felt sure Zakharov did not feel comfortable dealing with agents of capitalism, though the General undoubtedly acknowledged the necessity of their help. The plan would have been dead in the water without the Americans and their friends in the Council of Lyon.
"We greatly appreciate what your people are doing for us," the General said. It was more in the nature of a confession than a heartfelt vote of thanks.
"It isn't charity, you know. We expect it to pay dividends in the future."
"Ah, yes, the good old American way."
"Hey," Stern said, arching an eyebrow, "don't knock it if you haven't tried it."
Others in Russia had tried it, no doubt, but certainly not Valeri Zakharov. Now in his early sixties, the General remained a true disciple of that discredited old communist icon, Vladimir Ilych Lenin. He had joined the secret police, then part of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, around the time of Stalin's death. Soon afterward, it became the Committee for State Security, the KGB. He took his two years of post-graduate training at the Higher Intelligence School near Moscow, then got his indoctrination into the decadence of the West while serving in a number of foreign posts, including the mother church of the capitalist religion, Washington, D.C. Thus well fortified with firsthand knowledge of the enemy, he had shifted over to the First Department of the Second Chief Directorate, charged with pursuing American diplomats in an effort to recruit them as Soviet agents and to neutralize any intelligence activities operated out of the U.S. Embassy in Moscow.
Zakharov was dedicated, skillful and ruthless. Ultimately he had wound up with a promotion to general and assignment as the number two man in the Second Chief Directorate, which had overall responsibility for controlling the Soviet people and foreigners inside the country. But just when he had managed to develop repression into a fine art, perestroika and glasnost had raised their ugly heads to make his job more complicated than that of a two-fingered surgeon. The final blow came with the failure of the coup, which he had ardently supported. It landed him on the street in that most un-Soviet of predicaments, unemployment. But he considered himself lucky that the reformers had decided against show-trials of high-ranking officers, fearing it might get out of hand and degenerate into a purge worthy of Stalin.
It was one of the anomalies of the situation that his family was safe and doing well. Unfortunately, he did not get to see them often, and then only surreptitiously. His wife lived with their daughter in a large, restored czarist-era house. Their son-in-law had a lucrative business selling Western personal computers, but the General refused to think of the young man as a capitalist. He considered him a modern-day, legalized black marketeer. It was convoluted Marxist dialectic.
"We're fully supportive of your goals," Stern said in a businesslike tone. "Just make damned sure nothing even hints at a connection with the Roundtable or the Council. And, by the way, you haven't told us your plans for this side operation."
"I haven't told my own civilian leaders," the General said with a shrug. "Some may be a bit squeamish. I suspect that could be a problem for you, too."
Stern nodded. "Mr. Whitehurst certainly doesn't want to know. That's fine with me. But I'm talking about yours truly, General. I have a cast iron stomach. We're putting up the money and I've been elected to see that it gets spent where it will get the job done. That means I need the full details."
Zakharov didn't like the idea of sharing such sensitive information with an outsider. But Stern was right, of course. He was the contact who had provided the letter of credit at Kennedy Airport for Major Romashchuk's venture to Peru. He was the one who had funneled millions into the two Swiss bank accounts. Those who paid the design costs could expect to read the blueprints, Zakharov acknowledged.
"I suggest you meet Major Romashchuk down in Mexico in a week or so," the General said, twirling the empty glass between his fingers. "He'll be there making arrangements. By that time everything should be set."
Stern frowned. "Let me know where and when." He signaled the waiter for two refills. "One other thing, General. If I'm going to be working with Romashchuk, I'd like to know a bit more about him."
"Surely your computers can give you a detailed biography."
"I don't care about his pedigree. I want to know if he's good at what he does. Anyway, the Roundtable doesn't have access to the CIA's files. I could ask the Director for it, of course, but I doubt it would be wise to call attention to Major Romashchuk at the present time."
Zakharov's nod acknowledged that obvious fact. "You will find the Major quite capable, Mr. Stern. He has a sharp mind and quick responses. He's action-oriented. His father was a prominent engineer in Dnepropetrovsk, and he came to our attention while attending engineering school. He has a good grasp of technology. He can be a bit impulsive at times, but he readily adapts to his surroundings. Treat him as a fellow professional and you should have no problems."
"Sounds like a man I can do business with," Stern said.
17
Darkness as thick as black caviar shrouded the neighborhood when Yuri Shumakov arrived home. He stepped from the car to be greeted by a chilling breeze, a wayward challenge to summer that had just blown in from the Baltic. When he entered the tidy, compact apartment, he found the same chilly atmosphere prevailing inside. Both boys sat with heads buried in their books, stealing only furtive glances as their father walked in. He felt good about what he had accomplished in Kiev, but when he saw the storm-warning flags in Larisa's dark eyes, he knew he was not about to get a hero's welcome.
He looked slowly from one son to the other. "This place radiates about as much warmth as a peace table for Armenians and Azeris."
"Forget Nagorno-Karabakh," his wife said. "Try a cassette tape by that saintly icon of American popular music, Madonna." She shook her head, exhaling noisily.
Raising an eyebrow, Yuri stared across at the boys, who sat monk-like, totally engrossed, or so they would have him believe, in an avid quest for knowledge. "You two have been fighting over a cassette tape?" he said in apparent disbelief. If nothing else, appearances were helpful in getting a point across.
"It was mine," Petr said. "I swapped for it at school." He glared at his younger brother. "That idiot snitched it from me and hid it."