‘I think you might be underestimating the Anarchists,’ the President replied. ‘They’ve been showing some pretty impressive organizational skills in their terrorist attacks.’ Clark began to object, but the President kept speaking. ‘What do you plan to do to prevent future attacks like the one last night?’
‘There’s not too much we can do, sir… with what we have here now. As you know, I’m sure, our European allies have siphoned off some of their troop commitments because of trouble along the Trans-Siberian Railway further west. We’ve only got enough men to deploy to isolated positions at the missile bases and weapons depots. They’re not mutually supporting, and they’re not self-supporting. We can’t do any patrolling in strength, which means ceding the countryside to whatever bands of renegade army or Anarchist groups lurk out there.’
‘Is that a roundabout way of asking for more men? Because if it is, you’re wasting your breath. More men only means more targets. We’re going to keep this operation simple and quick. You’re there only to secure those nuclear weapons, not to start policing the countryside. Once the Russian army gets things under control, you’ll furl the colors and head home — you understand?’
Nate took a deep breath, then said, ‘Yes, sir. I understand. I understand completely.’
President Marshall’s Chief of Staff punched the button to disconnect the call.
‘Well,’ Marshall said, ‘it doesn’t sound like our man on the ground there is too happy.’
‘They always want more,’ his Chief of Staff replied. ‘More tanks, more troops, more jets. And you know what that leads to. Commitment. It’s quicksand. We can’t start throwing people in there like it’s some sort of invasion. The Chinese would go ape shit! Besides, I thought we already acceded to Clark’s remarks when we gave him that extra brigade.’
‘But still,’ Marshall said. ‘What if it was the Russian army? What if there’s more of it to come, and we’ve sent those men and women out there without enough support?’
‘It was Anarchist terrorists,’ his trusted advisor insisted, ‘and they got lucky. We should retaliate to let them know we won’t be messed with, and to assure the electorate that we’re not letting them push us around.’ Marshall winced on mention of the political ramifications. ‘You can’t overlook the campaign! Those were French troops, and the French don’t really give a damn about them. But if those body bags were filled with our people, there’d be hell to pay. We’d have to react strongly or take hits for coddling the Anarchists.’
‘React in what way?’ Marshall asked.
With a shrug, the Chief of Staff suggested, ‘An Executive Order.’
Marshall raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Are you suggesting that I authorize an assassination?’ His question was met with another shrug. ‘And just whose death would you propose that I sanction in signing an Executive Order?’
The man was clearly waffling, but he replied nonetheless.
‘This guy Kartsev.’ Marshall frowned. ‘He’s got plenty of blood on his hands if the reports we get are true!’
‘That’s hardly due process. Could we convict him in a court of law on what we know for a fact?’
‘But we’re not talking about trying him in court!’ Marshall’s Chief of Staff replied. ‘I’m talking about fighting fire with fire.’
‘You’re talking about being seen fighting fire with fire. You’re talking about the boost we’d get in the polls if one day Kartsev woke up dead. The media has demonized the guy — setting him up as the one man behind all the terrorism.’
‘But he is behind the terrorism. I know you think that.’
‘But I’m not a judge or a jury!’
‘Oh, yes, sir. You are. That’s why we’ve got Executive Orders. You sign it, and everything’s legal.’
Marshall smiled and shook his head. ‘Legal, sure. But is it moral?’
It was his advisor’s turn to smile. ‘What the hell does that have to do with anything? Kartsev is fucking evil! There’s no question that what he’s doing in those Siberian training camps is depraved and immoral. It’s practically medieval! Young girls disappearing from local villages! Aerial photos of mass graves! The man tried to kill you and your wife. He’s killed your Secretary of Defense and world leaders all across the world. And he killed those fifteen French soldiers last night.’
‘I’m not signing any Executive Orders.’
‘Okay, okay. So you don’t sign anything. So maybe you just pick up the phone and call the Pentagon. Every so often we get a Kartsev sighting out of the CIA. Maybe next time we do, he’s somewhere out in the boonies. If it makes you feel any better, we don’t “assassinate” the guy with a bullet, we just have the Air Force drop bombs all around and maybe one lands on his head, okay? It’s nice and neat and doesn’t have any paper trail. If we miss, we just make sure what we do blow up has some military value.’
Marshall stared back in silence. Heaving a deep sigh, Marshall finally picked up the phone and said, ‘Get me General Dekker.’
Kate Dunn had simply left a note for Woody, gone to the Kremlin, and requested an interview with Kartsev. To her amazement, the black-clad guards at the gate led her straight in. Kartsev had sat in an ornate, high-ceilinged room, sipping tea.
She had asked. He had answered. He had also checked his wristwatch repeatedly.
After ten minutes, Kartsev had risen in mid-sentence. The interview wasn’t over, he’d assured her, but they had to leave. Just outside the room, they’d passed heavily-armed Black Shirts. Her repeated calls of ‘Mr Kartsev’ had drawn no more than a smile over his shoulder. She had followed — blindly. The collapse of Russia was the biggest assignment she’d ever had, and he was her source, her guide… her protector.
Kate, Kartsev and an entourage of armed escorts had descended several flights of stairs. The walls had grown bare and dingy. The halls had narrowed, and the Black Shirts had pressed in all around. Kartsev never gave an order. He never even exchanged a look.
The Anarchist soldiers were all dressed the same. Nylon, zippers, boots, leggings and gloves — all black. But the men who wore the gear were each distinct in some way. One had short hair to go under his black helmet, but a bushy beard hanging from his face. Another was shaved clean of all hair — his face deeply pock-marked and his unsmiling eyes black. There were compact men, tall men — Caucasian, Asian, black.
None had entered the large service elevator with Kartsev and Kate.
‘Where the hell are we going?’ she’d asked.
‘To Siberia,’ he’d replied — smiling. ‘The last refuge of scoundrels.’
She had peppered him with more questions, and he had always politely replied. He had not, however, answered. They’d left the Kremlin through a special subway car — the only people on the highspeed train. When they’d emerged, they were at an airbase somewhere outside of town. The only light on the runway had come from the open door of an unmarked business jet.
Thunder had rolled across the wooded hills. They’d paused on the tarmac to listen. Again Kartsev had looked at his watch. ‘Punctilious,’ was all he’d said.
The darkening sky above the treeline had flickered with man-made flashes.