“I do,” Chagin said, with the icy stare of a paranoid stoic whose work fed his neuroses. GRU headquarters was its tabernacle. Vicious guard dogs patrolled the grounds. Attaché cases were prohibited inside. Chagin rarely left the windowless fortress.
While the Churchco dialysis machine cleansed Kaparov’s toxic blood, the group assessed the impact Churcher’s threat would have on the upcoming arms control negotiations if carried out. They groped desperately for a plan to counter it. But, as Kaparov feared, they found only one. The Premier left the meeting exhausted, clinging to the hope that Deschin’s rendezvous at sea with Churcher would be successful.
That evening, in the bedroom of an apartment a short walk down a corridor from his office in the Council of Ministers building, Premier Dmitri Kaparov lay next to his wife of fifty-three years.
The events of the previous twenty-four hours had severely drained him, but he couldn’t sleep. For hours, he had been staring at the shadows thrown across the ceiling from the lights in Red Square, thinking about SLOW BURN, and reflecting on its beginning, on those days when he and Aleksei Deschin were rising stars in the Intelligence and Cultural ministries — agencies that rarely interacted, save for the KGB’s chaperoning of creatively frustrated ballet stars.
However, early in the spring of 1960, the two young lions were unexpectedly drawn together. An American business entrepreneur with a passion for collecting art was the catalyst.
Theodor Churcher was in the Soviet Union on a business trip when he noticed the name Aleksei Deschin on a list of government appointments. They had worked together in the OSS during the war, and Churcher sought out the new deputy cultural minister. During a vodka-embellished reunion, replete with the telling of wartime stories, Churcher queried Deschin about the mother lode of Western art long exiled to the basements of Soviet museums. He expressed interest in quietly acquiring the masterpieces, and he would pay dearly for them — in hard American dollars. A currency which, both men knew, was highly prized by the Soviet government.
For Deschin, it was an exciting prospect. Who would have thought that a bureaucrat in a nonstrategic agency would be able to make such a tangible contribution to his government?
For Kaparov, the KGB “handling agent” assigned to oversee covert exchanges of paintings for cash, it was humdrum at best. Humdrum until, in a brilliant stroke, he saw the potential to alter history and, with Deschin’s assistance, hatched a bold plan.
Kaparov audaciously proposed that the government forego the much sought-after cash, and request another form of payment. One that he knew only this American could pay. An American who, Kaparov rightly suspected, wanted the artworks badly enough to pay it. Along with Deschin and Vladimir Semichastny, KGB Chief at the time, Kaparov sold the unorthodox idea to Premier Nikita Khrushchev, and SLOW BURN was born.
The terminally ill Premier’s recollection was marred by bitterness. He had planned that the position of unchallenged nuclear superiority would be his legacy to the Soviet people. And now he felt as if a knife had been suddenly thrust into him, with the cruelest timing imaginable. The long thin blade he visualized was slowly piercing his flesh when he heard the footsteps, the knock, and then the slow chatter of the hinge as the door opened, and his aide Vasily entered.
“Excuse me, Mr. Premier,” he whispered.
“It’s all right, Vasily. I’m awake.”
“Minister Deschin is on satellite hookup, sir,” Vasily said. “Shall I bring the phone to the bed?”
“No, no,” Kaparov replied softly. He knew what the call was about, and had been hoping it wouldn’t come. That would have meant a satisfactory agreement had been struck with Churcher. “I’ll take it in my office,” he said, thinking some decisions are not for the ears of one’s mate. He leaned across the pillow and kissed his wife on the forehead. “I will be back shortly, Pushka,” he whispered.
“Your robe, Dmitri,” she said, awakening. “Don’t forget your robe.”
“No, I will go stark naked,” he teased.
He pulled his stiffened body from the bed and slipped into his robe with Vasily’s assistance. He knotted the waist tie and stepped into his slippers.
Then, Dmitri Kaparov, General Secretary of the Communist party, Premier of the Council of Ministers of the Soviet Socialist Republics, the most powerful man in all of Russia, shuffled feebly to his office to decide whether Theodor Churcher would live or die.
Chapter Twelve
The Satellite Surveillance Group at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola is housed in K Building, at the far end of the ASW Forces Command complex.
On returning from the Foxtrot alert, Lieutenant Jon Lowell completed his watch and went directly to the heavily guarded and fenced structure. He took the steps two at a time, entered the nondescript lobby, and returned the salute of the Marine guard.
“Corporal,” he said, in the laconic tone military officers seem to use with subordinates.
“Morning, sir. How’re you today?” the poised youth replied.
“Fine thanks,” Lowell said. “Heading for the TSZ.”
This meant that Lowell sought access to the Top Secret Zone, where Anti Submarine Warfare, Satellite Surveillance, and Sound Surveillance System headquarters were housed.
The guard examined the ID badge clipped to the right breast pocket of Lowell’s uniform. The plastic-laminated card displayed the tactical coordinator’s name, rank, serial number, squadron, and photograph. He made a notation on a clipboard, then stepped aside — giving Lowell access to a pedestal-mounted keypad and monitor linked to the base’s personnel access computer.
Lowell entered his security clearance code.
The screen came alive with confirming data.
Seconds later, the steel door behind them slid open automatically.
“Go get ’em, sir,” the guard exhorted. He was referring to the fact that all K building personnel were involved in a continuing hunt for the enemy.
“Do my best,” Lowell replied, stepping through the doorway into the TSZ.
Minutes later, Lowell was in the photographic library, assembling the materials he needed to pursue his hunch about the Soviet submarine’s destination.
The walls of the room where Lowell was working were papered with photomurals of incredibly detailed, high resolution KH-11 satellite photographs. A linear network, designating latitude and longitude, was superimposed over each sat-pix, as was a pattern of tiny camera registration marks that resembled plus signs. In the lower right-hand corner, a data block spelled out date, time, navigational coordinates, satellite position, and security classification. All photographs displayed in this decorative manner had long been declassified.
By the time Lt. Commander Arnsbarger, the Viking’s pilot, arrived, Lowell was standing at one of the long library tables. The half dozen 18” × 24” sat-pix enlargements that he had requisitioned were spread out on the white formica surface. Lowell hunched intently over an illuminated magnifier, moving it slowly over the surface of one of the photographs.
“Well?” Arnsbarger challenged, removing his sunglasses. “Where do these Ruskie bozos go?”
“Lowell looked up and shook his head. “Nowhere,” he said quizzically.
Arnsbarger questioned him with a look.