‘And you’ve deciphered that process?’ Kate asked.
‘I have tried to do my part. To describe a piece of the process, perhaps.’
‘What piece?’
‘Certain… manners of translation of societal forces. Actually, more like currents that…’ He faltered.
After several moments of silence, Kate said, ‘You’re having trouble answering the question?’
‘Well, you’re asking it in a rather rude way!’ He calmed down instantly — ready to apologize.
‘You are sick, you know?’ she said with disdain that had never been more evident.
‘So I understand,’ he replied with a sigh.
‘You think that characterization is unfair? After what you’ve done?’
Kartsev ignored the barb and tried again to explain. ‘Can you not see the degree of human interconnectivity? The rippling waves of fashion and culture that criss-cross our world? They create such deliciously complex patterns of interference. Behavioral trends aren’t linear, you know. They are dissonant fields in multi-dimensional space. Even if they could be plotted mathematically — described by an accurate model — they could not be visualized in the human mind.’
‘Then how did you describe the process in your book?’
‘Very primitively, I’m sure,’ Kartsev said. He smiled and lowered his head. ‘I can only hope I’ve advanced mankind’s thinking in some small way.’
‘And that justifies what you’ve done?’ she shouted — outraged. ‘Does that give you license to harm even one other human on earth?’
‘Who said that I needed license?’ Kartsev asked with an innocent expression. ‘Why am I not free to do what I please? Because someone wrote a law in a book? I could write volumes of rules and regulations. I assume you would find all of them illegitimate.’
‘Because you have no mandate from the people to govern.’
‘Who said I need a mandate? Empires and monarchies govern quite effectively. Pluralism is simply the dictatorship of the center over the extremes. A distribution of power along the bell curve. Democratic representatives grope for a consensus as if some magical truth lies in that center. What a comical system it is! Who said that conformity to norms is a measure of fitness to govern? Who defines the degree of deviation from the norm that’s allowed? Each society draws its own lines. Things acceptable in Amsterdam would get you beheaded in Afghanistan. Where is the sense in that? Who is to judge the right from the wrong? Humans? God? And if God, which god? Whose laws and traditions should rule?’
Kate simply shook her head. ‘You’ve debased everything good in the name of evil. You’ve led a counter-enlightenment. A Renaissance in reverse. You’ve led your country into the Dark Ages. You’ve caused a major war. You’ve killed millions.’
Kartsev smiled. ‘Do you believe a man to be responsible for everything that ensues from his actions?’ She didn’t answer. ‘If the action was well-intentioned, do you still blame the agent for the result?’
‘Nothing you’ve done was well-intentioned.’
‘I’m not talking about me,’ Kartsev replied. He grinned broadly, but not menacingly. ‘I’m a very bad man, yes. To you I must be the epitome of Satan. The incarnation of the Antichrist.’
‘You flatter yourself. I actually see you as more banal. A petty tyrant with the aspirations of a Nazi doctor.’
Kartsev shrugged and nodded. His smile was long gone. ‘I suppose that’s an apt description. But perhaps you should read the book.’ He turned and patted his pockets distractedly. He found a pen and stuck it in his jacket. ‘The Square is full by now, I would imagine.’ He suddenly had a wonderful idea. ‘Miss Dunn, have you ever seen Red Square from atop Lenin’s Mausoleum? As a reporter I should think you would be very curious. It could be an historic moment, you know. Just imagine looking out on a sea of faces. I never have been on the reviewing stand before, actually. But I grew up watching from below. It’s really more comfortable down there. Always looking up. Being part of the mass… not alone.’
When Kartsev thought to look to Kate for an answer, she almost whispered in a thick voice, ‘I want to go home.’
There was a knock on the door. An aide stepped in but said nothing. Kartsev nodded, and the aide disappeared. Kartsev tucked his speech into his pocket. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘My people will see to it. Farewell then, Miss Dunn. Farewell.’ He headed for the door, deeply saddened.
‘Who were you talking about?’ she blurted out. He stopped and turned. ‘When you were asking whether someone should be blamed for the results even if his actions were well-intentioned?’
Kartsev beamed. ‘Oh! Why, your beloved President Davis, of course. This generation’s Abraham Lincoln, I believe your colleagues in the press are calling him. Every indication that I get is that he’s an honorable, upstanding man. His actions seem to have been taken with the best of intentions, which makes them — of course — highly predictable. And yet who is more despicable? Valentin Kartsev, who caused the deaths of perhaps a few million people at most? Or Gordon Davis, who is directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds upon hundreds of millions of human beings?’
Kate stared back at him. Not understanding. ‘You mean the war?’ His only response was a noncommittal arch of his brow. ‘Your question doesn’t make any sense. Hundreds of millions of people didn’t die!’
Kartsev straightened his tie. He wiped his palms on his thighs as if nervous, then tugged his jacket, stiffened his back and took a deep, bracing breath. ‘But they will.’ He turned and left the chilly, dark room.
The breeze across Red Square gusted slightly. Andreev clicked the windage knob to adjust for the added drift. The sky was a brilliant blue. Heat could be felt in the sun’s radiance. The captive mass of pathetic souls below was ringed by black-clad thugs.
Pyotr was calm and focused in the tight space between the ancient chimneys on the roof of GUM. It was the site he’d worried about most as head of presidential security. He’d crawled through the wall space years earlier — just as he had the day before. It was a security nightmare. Ingress was concealed behind the hollow walls of the former government department store. The round, rooftop window was easily opened. Lenin’s Mausoleum lay directly in front and beneath the site at a thirty-degree angle of elevation. And there was even rapid egress by climbing down criss-crossing wood bracing to a sub-basement. From there you could get into the sewer and out via the subway service tunnels.
He’d written a detailed report and advised how everything should be sealed up tight. But the president himself had interceded. He had rejected the plan without explanation. Pyotr was sufficiently steeped in Kremlin politics not to ask for one. All copies of Pyotr’s report were shredded and burned. Thereafter, every gathering in Red Square was preceded by Pyotr’s personal check of the site.
A roar rose up, and a waving man ascended to the flat roof of the tomb. Andreev removed the scope’s front lens cover from the potentially reflective glass. He twirled his left forearm in the rifle’s sling once more, twisting it ever tighter. The sling would limit the circulation in his left forearm — eventually causing shakes from muscles starved of oxygen. But he would be quick. He’d take the first opportunity presented. He wouldn’t rush the mechanics of the shot, but there was nothing to be gained by delay.
One shot — one kill, came the words of the American instructor. They were a motto repeated over and over. They were the only words of advice that stuck with Pyotr. He’d never heard them when he went through the Russian Army’s special training course twenty years before. The Russians were less concerned with escape, evasion and survival.