The room they entered was standard for embassy pomp and portentousness: a fireplace; matched-grain panelling of lustrous walnut; drapes of rich, burgundy damask; chairs upholstered in black leather; massive, oaken tables with carved lion’s feet; and a Persian carpet deep enough to lose your shoes in. Bottles, decanters, and glasses winked and glowed upon a long sideboard beneath a hero-sized portrait of Colonel — now Supreme General — Terence Bumham Copley.
“The old boy finally made it,” Wrench breathed admiringly. “No Napoleon suit, but you will note the heroic tilt of the chin, the far-seeing glint in the steely eyes, the hand just itching to crawl inside the coat lapel. Hell, Lessing, when I went to New Sverdlovsk to find you, old Copley didn’t have a pot to piss in! Now I’ll bet he decorates the basement of his outhouse with Czarist antiques!”
“Tain’t so. The best loot was up in Moscow ‘n’ Leningrad,” a voice behind them drawled. “‘N’ you jizmoes ripped that off! All us poor fuckers got was factories and industrial shit.”
They turned to see Johnny Kenow, dressed in the russet and black of the Army of New Sverdlovsk. Beside him, wearing the female counterpart of Kenow ‘s uniform, stood Rose Thurley. Both displayed the collar-pips of staff officers.
“Surprise, surprise…!” Wrench muttered. “Special en-voys…? More like hanky-panky at the top of the ladder!”
Rose looked much the same as Lessing remembered her: a bit thicker… dumpier, to be blunt… her cheeks more rounded, her short hair a mousier shade of red-brown-grey. Damned if she didn’t resemble a Russian peasant woman. Perhaps there was something to be said for environment over genetics after all. “Lessing…?” She ventured.
He moved toward her but stopped short. It had been too long. She opened her arms. “Hey, mate! Give us a good ‘un!” He closed the gap, took her in his arms, and bussed her soundly on the cheek. That was all he could ever offer her.
Kenow winked at Wrench. “What say we work us out a deal?” “What’re you dealing?”
“Whatever wets yer whistle, for starters. We got damn’ near everythin.’” He inspected the bottles on the sideboard. “Don’t try our vodka, though… I know what goes in it. See some scotch here… pre-Pacov stuff….” Glasses clinked.
“Lessing doesn’t drink anymore.” Wrench picked up a linen napkin and inspected the tray of canapes. “Which is what a beautiful wife’ll do to you. Being a bachelor, I occasionally take my joy in liquid form.” He raised his scotch to the light to admire the color.
Rose still held Lessing’s fingers in hers. She shook herself, sighed, and let go.
He smiled, trying for just the right mix of friendliness and distance. “I can’t stay long… got to get back and change clothes for the Christmas party tonight. Uh… you two want to come?”
Rose shook her head.
“Can’t,” Kenow replied. “We ain’t even s’posed to be in this country.”
“If you’d given me a day’s notice you were coming…!”
“Shit, I mean it, Lessing: we ain’t here. Rose’s in Germany… or her double is, a Lithu-friggin’-anian woman who looks more like her’n she does herself. She’s spendin’ Rose’s money buyin’ Christmas presents in Berlin. Me, I’m in New Sverdlovsk in bed with the Empress… you ‘member my wife… and the worst dinkin’ cold in all Rooshia. Not even Frank Lithgow… our ambassador… officially knows we’re in Washington.”
Wrench ran a curious finger over a huge, brass samovar, squinted into a lighted cabinet containing delicate copies of Faberge jeweled eggs, and pulled up short in front of Kenow. “Okay, folks, to hang it out on the line: what’s the scam? Why the secrecy?”
Both spoke at once. Rose won. “We’ve got photographs, documents, maps “
“Of what?” Lessing threw himself down in one of the leather armchairs. He looked surprised as it creaked, hissed, and slowly subsided under his weight.
“The Izzies, luv! The bastard Izzies!” Rose stumped over to a table at the far end of the room and returned with a leather-bound portfolio. ‘“Ere, cop this… ’ave a look!”
The aerial photographs and infrared pictures would require interpretation by experts, but the snapshots were straightforward enough.
“Whose rocket?” Lessing asked in hushed tones. He picked up the glossy to see better.
“The Izzies,’ what’d yer think? An* that’s a bleedin’ atomic warhead stuck on it like a wart on yer dink! They got a dozen of these poggers! Americans didn’t find and destroy ‘em all… some pre-Pacov SS-50 medium-range jobbies still in Central Asia, transport carriers ‘n’ everything. The Izzies bought ‘em from the Tatars or the dinkin’ Mongols or somebody. Mebbe they built their own, though there’s no proof of that.”
Wrench turned the photographs around. “Can’t be. We’d have had reports.”
“Bugger yer reports. It’s dead cert! We got better spies in Ufa and Kharkov than you got. The Brits have a decent bloke in Kuybyshev, though. They’ll confirm.”
“All right. Assume the worst. Who’s the target?”
“Us, who else? First we thought they was for the Turks, but we learned different”
Lessing felt adrenaline building up and blood starting to beat in his temples. He wanted to rub the bridge of his nose, but Liese had said that that always gave him away. Instead, he stroked the brass studs in the slick, leather upholstery of his chair.
He took a careful breath. “How do you know?”
“Here.” Johnny Kenow spilled a stack of documents and photographed pages out in front of him. “We lost three good ol’ boys gittin’ this.”
“You sure these missiles are nuclear? Not conventional explosive warheads?”
“Right there.” Rose pointed with a blunt fingernail at a paragraph of Hebrew script. “Translation’s pinned on it.”
“Never did learn their goddamned language,” Wrench mumbled. “You’re right. What’s this…? Nerve gas too?”
“Yup. We seen it” Kenow nodded energetically. “’Member Doctor Casimir?” Lessing grunted assent. “Well, he was a Jew, but we turned him… he come over to our side… and Copley sent him into Kharkov. You’d never believe what he brung out! The Izzies’re buildin’ a poggin’ war machine in there that could flatten New Sverdlovsk… and the Turks and the Pakis to boot! Mebbe even take out yer base in Moscow, if they wanna go that route.”
“Our Moscow office has already told us some of this,” Lessing said, a little uncomfortably; Wrench was looking at him. Cadre recon reports were need-to-know only, and the Secretary for Education and Information wasn’t always a member of that charmed circle.
Wrench scratched his jaw. “I have a question. Why me and Lessing? Why not go right to the top to President Simmons himself… call a cabinet meeting… bring in the Joint Chiefs… the whole song and dance? Lessing can’t do much for you; he’s a Cadre general, but he doesn’t have the authority to send troops or military aid. As for me, I can put your evidence on Home-Net and our other networks, but… well, I mean, what the hell…?” He trailed off, nonplussed.
“Me ‘n’ Johnny know Lessing,” Rose answered slowly. “He’s an old friend, like. We can talk to him. Copley knows him, too.” She looked embarrassed. “We wasn’t expecting you. Minister… um, Secretary… Wren, but you’re welcome.”
“What can I… we… do, then?” Lessing asked.
Rose held out a sealed envelope. “This here’s from Copley. A… a sort of announcement… and a request.”
Lessing opened it. He read for a moment, whispered, “Jesus…,” and passed it on to Wrench.
“Yup,” Johnny Kenow looked at his watch. “It’s all over. Right now Copley’s eatin’ dinner in what’s left of Ufa. There won’t be no Kuybyshev, neither. All of northeastern Izzie-land’ll be in our hands by this evenin, and the Turks’ll be in Kharkov, Donetsk, and Kiev. We’re keepin’ the Pakis happy by lettin’ ’em have Uzbekistan, Turkistan, Umbrella-stan, and a bunch of other Moehammedan ‘stans’ out east. They’ll keep an eye on the Indians… who’re too fungled with the Chinese and the rest of Asia to bugger us right now, anyway.”