He quickly disconnected his G-suit and oxygen hose and extended the small steps that would allow him to climb down from the cockpit. Although the general was almost sixty, he was fit and agile and managed the narrow steps with ease. After reaching the ground he stretched his arms, cracked the kinks out of his back, then took off his flight helmet and gloves and hung them on one of the steps. Physically, the general was striking. He was tall and slender, with a square jaw, broad checks, and penetrating gray eyes. Thirty years earlier, General Lomov had been a poster boy for the Soviet Air Force. His face had appeared on thousands of propaganda billboards and signs, extolling the virtues of service to one’s country. As a young captain he had toured the far reaches of the Soviet empire, recruiting young warriors to the Socialist cause. And though the years had passed and softened his features, still the general remained driven by the fires of ambition. He was cold and intelligent, and focused as a laser.
After stretching his muscles, he turned and gestured to Golubev to come over to the jet.
“Have you ever seen such a beautiful aircraft?” he asked as the Prime Minister approached.
“Never!” Golubev replied as he admired the general’s fighter. When he noticed Lomov’s name painted under the raised canopy, he smiled to himself at the general’s vanity. It didn’t surprise him that Lomov had his own jet. It fit his character perfectly. The general had the pride of a fighter pilot and over the years, Golubev had come to expect certain things from his ego.
“Does it perform in the air as well as it looks on the ground?” Golubev asked, after walking around the jet.
“Oh, it’s a dream you could not understand, Mr. Prime Minister. There is nothing like it in the world. Anywhere.
Come here. Let me show you something.”
The two men climbed the tiny steps and crowded together so that they could peer into the cockpit.
“We have recovered the pilot,” Lomov whispered as he pointed to the head-up display. “He was brought in last week. He should be in Kiev by Wednesday.”
“Is he clean?” the Prime Minister asked as he looked in the direction the general was pointing. “We don’t need the Americans asking any questions.”
“Clean as snow,” the general replied. “It was a perfect break. The Americans aren’t asking any questions, aside from the normal investigation after one of their planes go down. They won’t find anything unusual. It was a good plan. Simple and with little outside involvement.”
“Has he been briefed?” the prime minister asked.
“Not yet. Morozov is out of the country. But he should be back by tomorrow. He will meet with the pilot when he arrives on Wednesday.”
Two black sedans pulled through the gate and onto the tarmac, accelerating rapidly across the open cement. Both men turned to watch them as they approached.
“Which brings me to my next point,” the general continued. “Morozov feels he has found an additional financier. Someone who can give us all of the money we need to complete this operation. But he may have to be persuaded. I told Morozov he could use some of our people in Cuba, but he seemed to think he could handle it himself.
“After he meets the pilot in Kiev, he is going back to South America to get the money.”
“We are running out of time,” Golubev muttered.
“Morozov won’t disappoint us,” Lomov assured his friend. “Yevgeni, haven’t you learned that by now?”
“What about the girl?” Golubev quickly asked.
“That news isn’t good. We’ve been watching her apartment, but she hasn’t returned. Apparently she just disappeared. It could be hard to track her since we don’t want to use any of our official people. Liski is working on it.”
Lomov nodded as they watched the sedans approach. The back doors of the second car began to swing open before it even came to a stop.
The two men climbed down from the aircraft. They turned to meet the welcome party, but before they were surrounded, the Prime Minister whispered under his breath. “Keep me informed, Victor. We have come too far to let things start slipping through the cracks. If the pilot is here by Wednesday, I want to meet him for myself. And soon. It would be nice to wait for the perfect excuse, but we can’t afford that luxury. Time will not allow it.”
“Be ready to go hunting,” General Lomov nodded as he walked toward the waiting cars. “I will let you know.”
The Russian president studied each man in the room, staring into their faces, summing them up, seeking their thoughts through their eyes. Some of the men returned his gaze with equally unblinking and cold-hearted stares, while others, generally the younger ministers, began to fidget in their seats. The Interior Minister seemed particularly anxious as he drummed nervous fingers across the arm of his chair. A few of the men stared off into space, too fearful to even look at Fedotov. The room nearly crackled with stress and only the generals seemed relaxed and at ease.
As the Russian president studied the faces, he almost smiled. Stalin was right. Nothing could be quite so persuasive as fear. The plan was so simple. Kill off the main competition, hit hard and hit fast, then watch the sheep as they flock to your side.
Fedotov sat at the table and gathered his notes. He was a wiry man, with thin brown hair atop a narrow face and pointed chin. Black eyes sat deep within his pock-marked face and his roman nose jutted out above pale, thin lips. Above his left eye was a jagged red scar, his badge from the night on the bridge. Behind his back, his enemies called him “Whorlest”-the “little mink.” Fedotov knew of the insulting nickname; but it never bothered him. In fact, he found it somewhat amusing. “Little mink.” It wasn’t much of title, but it would do.
To most of his subordinates, Fedotov was a mysterious man, shrouded in a veil of paranoia and fear. He was a shadowy figure, a hard and ambitious man who had risen to power with such speed and direction that he left no trail in his wake. His personal life, if he had one, was a complete blank, nothing but a sheet of white paper, and it spoke volumes of the Russian republic that such a ghostlike figure could ever rise to such a position of power.
Unfortunately for the ministers and generals, Fedotov didn’t suffer from the same lack of information about his rivals and enemies. There wasn’t a single man seated around the table about whom Fedotov couldn’t have instantly recited the most intimate personal details — from their habits of personal hygiene to their latest travels, from their political sympathies to conversations they had with their wives while lying in bed. Over the past three years, Prime Minister Vladimir Fedotov and his conspirators had committed enormous resources to collecting such information on the power elite, the most interesting and useful of which was compiled into thick but tidy dossiers and tucked away in his safe.
Fedotov looked up. “Comrades… this meeting will be very brief,” he began.
“Thirty days ago, Sakarovek was killed, leaving me with the responsibility of leading our nation at a time of its deepest despair.
“Now, for those of you who don’t already know, President Sakarovek was nothing but a coward. He brought more misery and suffering to our people than any leader since the Czars. Minister Sklyarov was a thief. And Secretary Moykola…” Fedotov’s eyes blazed. “How can I even explain? He was a stooge for the West. A traitor and nothing more. It was my duty to send them to hell.”
The Deputy Prime Minister’s face remained passive and without emotion. Fedotov’s candor didn’t surprise him. Everyone in the room knew what was going on. For the past several years they had seen the train coming. All they wanted was to get out of the way.