Deschin nodded glumly and flicked a solicitous glare at Tvardovskiy.
“My apologies, comrades,” Tvardovskiy said, concealing that the slowdown in the talks more than pleased him. “Point well-taken.”
He had no trouble prioritizing. Despite the KGB’s global agitprop and intelligence gathering operations, internal activities take clear precedence. The Service knows its power is centered in the need to keep the 270 million Soviet citizens — spread across nine million square miles in fifteen republics and eleven time zones — suppressed. And suppressing dissatisfaction with the quality of life long sacrificed to cold war militarism is the major task. Tvardovskiy knew nuclear superiority might tempt a new Premier to loosen the economic reins, thereby diminishing the KGB’s power; and the educated, worldly Deschin would be more prone than others to do so. He also knew that Deschin’s swift stewardship of SLOW BURN would enhance his candidacy in the eyes of the Politburo, and that delays would weaken it.
“Just to be the devil’s advocate,” Tvardovskiy went on, “perhaps we should back off in Geneva until the situations I noted are rectified.”
“I’ve often pictured you as his advocate, Sergei,” Deschin replied slyly, “But never advocating retreat.” Deschin hadn’t thought of the premiership often. But faced with Kaparov’s death, he had become acutely aware of his strong position, and knew the game Tvardovskiy was playing. “No, we must think aggressively now,” he went on. “We must find a way to regain that momentum.”
“Easier said than done, comrade,” Zhakrov replied.
“Yes, but Comrade Deschin is right,” Gorodin said. This was the first he’d heard of the Premier’s poor health. He was quite certain the biographic leverage he held — the recently confiscated proof tucked in his pocket — assured his long sought membership in the elite nomenklatura. And his ascendency could only be enhanced by De-schin’s. “We must push forward,” he went on. “This is no time to embrace defensive strategy.”
“Well put,” Deschin said. “As our beloved Dmitrievitch would say, ‘We must turn adversity to advantage.’ And he is the key to it.”
The group questioned him with looks, as he expected they would.
“The poor man is but a corpse,” Pykonen said compassionately.
“Precisely,” Deschin replied. “We’d been keeping him alive to preserve our momentum. Now we will let him die to recapture it. Yes, in memory of our deceased Premier, for whom disarmament was all, we will announce to the world that Dmitri Kaparov’s dying words were a plea that the talks be resumed immediately, and that they proceed with renewed vigor and dedication until mankind is at long last free of the threat of nuclear annihilation.” He paused, assessing the idea, then nodded with conviction. “Comrades—”
He left the office and slowly walked the long corridor to the Premier’s apartment.
Mrs. Kaparov was sitting next to the bed, holding her husband’s hand, when Deschin entered. She turned slightly as he leaned, putting his head next to hers, whispering something. The tiny woman nodded sadly, her eyes filled with tears. Deschin straightened, glanced thoughtfully to Kaparov’s inert form, then tightened his lips and nodded to the doctor decisively.
She stepped to the cluster of medical equipment.
The sounds of artificial life stopped. The peaks and valleys of vital signs were two straight lines now, the synchronized beep a continuous, mournful tone.
Chapter Forty-one
After being plucked from the sea and brought aboard the Kira, Lowell and Arnsbarger had taken steaming hot showers, and exchanged drenched flight gear for denims, sweaters, and sneakers from the ship’s stores. Then they joined Captain Rublyov in the communications room, and contacted ASW Pensacola. They reported their rescue, the midair explosion of the Viking S-3A, and the “tragic loss” of two crewmen. After which, Rublyov made his suggestion of immediate pickup; and ASW replied it would be dark before a U.S. Navy search-and-rescue chopper could rendezvous, and postponed it until morning for reasons of safety.
“You’re both very lucky,” Rublyov said as they came from the communications room and climbed the companion way that led to the bridge.
“Yeah, I know,” Arnsbarger replied morosely, feigning sadness over the loss of his fellow crewmen. “Somehow, I don’t feel much like celebrating.”
When the three reached the landing at the top of the companionway Lowell put one foot up on the railing, the other far out behind him, and began stretching out the muscles in his legs.
“How long is this tub anyway, Captain?” he asked, casting a conspiratorial glance toward Arnsbarger.
“Four hundred forty-five meters is this tub.”
“Let’s see,” Lowell said calculating, “that’s about two laps to the mile. Any objections to me wearing a groove in your deck?”
“A groove?” asked Rublyov, not understanding.
“He’s a runner,” Arnsbarger chimed in.
“Ten-ks, marathons,” Lowell added, continuing the pre-run stretching ritual.
“Ah,” Rublyov said, catching on, “Not a good idea. The deck is a maze of pumping equipment and hoses. I’d be concerned for your safety.”
“Piece of cake compared to my usual route,” Lowell replied. “No cars, no attack dogs, no kids with garden hoses.” He turned and ran down the steps into the passageway, and kept going.
Arnsbarger shook his head in dismay. “Like somebody once said, every time I get an urge to exercise, I lie down till it goes away.”
Rublyov broke into an amused smile. He had no reason to suspect that Lowell’s request was part of a plan to search the Kira. He’d rather Lowell stayed off the deck, but couldn’t object strongly without tipping he had something to hide.
In developing the plan, DCI Boulton and analysts at CIA Headquarters in Langley had deduced that if a Soviet Heron missile was concealed aboard the Kira, causing the thousand-ton discrepancy they’d detected, it couldn’t be housed astern beneath the bridge and living quarters because the tanker’s engine room and fuel tanks were located there. Nor for reasons of safety, when taking on and pumping off crude, would it be amidships surrounded by the five cargo compartments that held 25,000 tons of oil each. If one of those had been modified, creating the discrepancy, it would be the forward-most compartment in the bow — far from where they knew Lowell and Arnsbarger would be quartered. Hence, the need for subterfuge to get onto the deck with far-ranging mobility.
Now, Captain Rublyov stood on the bridge, his binoculars trained on the tiny figure almost a quarter of a mile away on the Kira’s bow.
Lowell was running laps around the perimeter, between the pipe-and-cable railings and the massive hose fittings used to fill and empty the Kira’s compartments of crude. He had worked up a sweat and removed the sweater, tying it around his waist. His long, easy stride, and the fact that he was breathing as easily now as when he started running, confirmed he was a long-distance runner as he’d claimed.
Arnsbarger came up the companionway onto the bridge with a fresh cup of coffee, joining the captain and first officer. “Still at it, huh?”
“Yes, he’s most determined,” Rublyov replied.
“Compulsive type. Most TACCOS are.”
“Taccos?” Rublyov wondered, taking the bait and lowering the binoculars.