Upon entering the building he went directly to his office, started some coffee, and began writing out a report in longhand.
Typewriters — even manual typewriters — could be picked up by electronic bugs, and he had no doubt the embassy was wired eighteen ways from Sunday. Upon finishing his report he put the original in an envelope and sealed it with his personal wax emblem. He addressed it "Eyes Only — Director— ASIS," then put his feet up to wait for the dawn. The envelope would go into the diplomatic pouch, then off on the 8:40 a.m. Aeroflot flight to Tokyo. Upon arrival at Narita Airport, the diplomatic courier would switch to a Qantas 747-SP airliner for the long haul to Australia. It would be in the ASIS Director's hands in Canberra in twenty hours. Slow, but this kind of intel you didn't even think about entrusting to the encryption room.
He poured more coffee and thought about the warm sandy beaches at Perth.
Ivan Pirdilenko's spidery frame was hunched over the computer keyboard as he scrolled through the navigational program on his monitor one last time, searching for any hidden bugs. The flite plan for the antisatellite projectile would have to be most precise, and because of this he was unwilling to entrust his programming efforts to the Soviet-built Kosmos computers in the Data Centre. Instead, he cranked out the flite plan program on his Digital Equipment Micro VAX 3600 minicomputer. The American VAX machine had also been purchased through a shell company in France, and was so popular among Pirdilenko's staff that he had to personally control access to it.
When he was at last satisfied the program was purged of all bugs, he made the appropriate keystrokes and the electronic instructions were loaded into the Texas Instruments computer chip housed inside the navigational cartridge. After the data transfer was complete, he rang for his assistant and detached the coaxial cables from the cartridge.
Pirdilenko allowed himself a moment of reflection. If he pulled this off for the General Secretary and the KGB chieftain, he would likely be promoted to director of the entire cosmodrome. As Data Centre Director he virtually ran the cosmodrome now, because his superior was a Party hack who was drunk half the time. It would be a tremendous advancement for his own career.
"You summoned me, Comrade Director?" asked the young assistant dutifully.
Pirdilenko scratched his thinning hair with his long, skinny fingers. "Da. Take this cartridge to Major Somolyu in Flite Operations. Have him install it in the warhead immediately." Pirdilenko looked at his Seiko watch. It was 2:00 a.m., but he was accustomed to working bizarre hours. "We have over four hours until launch. That should be ample time to complete preparations."
"At once, Comrade Director."
After his assistant left, Pirdilenko pulled on his Vandyke beard and smiled. Perhaps this Kostiashak fellow was correct, after all. This was chess on a grand scale.
THE THIRD DAY
The long black Cadillac Fleetwood limousine pulled through the White House gate and up to the visitors' entrance. A Secret Service guard opened the rear door and out stepped Ambassador Yevgeny Yakolev, wearing tuxedo and overcoat. The well-tailored tux fit his rotund body snugly, and a homburg hat covered the few wisps of white hair that still remained on his head. He'd been attending a Gershwin concert at Kennedy Center when an aide had finally tracked him down. The old diplomat refused to wear one of those infernal beeping devices and was known to go off by himself without telling anyone. This wasn't the first time one of his assistants had had to play hide and seek.
Yakolev was known for two things — he was a survivor, and he was an honest man. In Russia, those two attributes were not always compatible. As a lad of fifteen he'd carried a machine gun from Stalingrad to Berlin in the Great Patriotic War, then later he'd built an academic career at Moscow State University. His field was Western European history, and he was called upon from time to time to perform special studies for the Foreign Ministry, where he gained a sterling reputation for his succinct analyses.
After Gorbachev was murdered and the GOSPLAN Minister had clawed his way into the General Secretary's slot, the Politburo members were apprehensive and wanted a reliable man in Washington. A man they could trust, and one whom the Americans would trust as well. With all the upheaval going on within the Kremlin, the Politburo didn't want the Americans skittish, too. As a result, the new General Secretary found himself compelled to select Yakolev — a man who had no vested interests or career ambitions in the Foreign Ministry, but who was well respected in diplomatic circles. He'd also been a professor to several Politburo members when they were younger men attending the University, and was universally liked.
Yakolev took the post reluctandy, because he was an old widower and didn't want to leave his children and grandchildren. Also, Western Europe was his field, not North America. But he was a lifelong member of the Party, and he felt the posting was his duty to the state, so he accepted.
As expected, the Americans came to respect Yakolev. He never promised what he couldn't deliver. He wasn't intoxicated by press conferences, but returned the phone calls of reporters. He spoke in clear language instead of Pravda gibberish. He was the antithesis of the legendary Anatoly Dobrynin, who had been the Kremlin's envoy to Washington for over two decades. Dobrynin was master of the "back channel" communique and could change his spots faster than a chameleon. By comparison, Yakolev was rather plodding, but he was trustworthy. What you saw was what you got with Yakolev, and the President was aware of this as the aging ambassador was ushered into the Oval Office of the West Wing.
Yakolev felt something was amiss. The fact that he'd been tracked down and taken away from his beloved Gershwin music was one indication. The second hint was that the President was receiving him in the Oval Office. Usually the President liked to work out of a less formal office in the old Executive Office Building, and Yakolev had been there on many occasions. The Oval Office was used for occasions of stiff formality, and this appeared to be such an occasion, for seated behind the desk was the President, and standing on his right was the Secretary of State, while on his left was the Secretary of Defense. All were wearing white tie and tails. They'd been pulled out of a state dinner honoring the French President when the Soviet ambassador was located. The Vice President had remained in the State
Dining Room to cover for the three men. All hoped they could return before their absence became too obvious.
Sensing the somber tone of the occasion, Yakolev walked forthrightly to the President's desk. "You wished to see me, Mr. President?" he asked.
The chief executive nodded. "I did, Mr. Ambassador, and I'll come right to the point. I have received some disturbing information from my people in the Defense Department that an agency of the Soviet government is communicating with an American spacecraft which was launched yesterday morning from California."
Yakolev offered a blank stare. "I beg your pardon?"
The President turned to his left. "Mr. Secretary, if you please."
The Secretary of Defense handed the ambassador a typed sheet outlining the specifics of the Intrepid1s behavior, and in his gentle Southern accent he read through the details.