“Colonel, have you talked yet with the wounded man?”
“Yes, sir, and I was quite successful.”
“How so?”
“He just confessed to being a colonel in the United States Army Green Berets.” Referring to notes, Kapitsa added, “His name is Joseph Safcek, serial number 0-1926112.”
The startled Bakunin reached quickly for the phone to inform Moskanko when Kapitsa continued, “He was going to destroy the laser.”
“With what?”
“Plastique. We found six charges in his car, and he says there are six more out in the field somewhere.”
“Plastique? Could that do the job?” Bakunin sounded incredulous.
“Yes, sir. He could have done it if he had gotten through my men,” Kapitsa said with a certain smugness.
Bakunin was suddenly agitated. “Colonel, you have had long experience with intelligence matters. What does this attempt tell you about the mind of the enemy?”
Before Kapitsa could reply, Bakunin rushed on. “Would the American President send these two this far on the slim chance that they could break our security screen and get up close to the laser? No, I think not. There must be something else that we do not know yet. What do you think?”
He looked searchingly at the KGB officer, who seemed deflated in the presence of the interrogator from Moscow. Kapitsa fumbled for an answer. “It is possible Safcek is only a decoy for some other move by Washington.”
The marshal nodded. “That is just what I think. And it is the worst thought of all, because it means that Stark is not the man I was told he was.”
Grimly, Bakunin reached for the phone again.
In Moscow, it was after 3 A.M., but the Kremlin was not asleep. The hot-line operator was startled by the insistent clatter of the teletype machine. He waited while a message appeared, then handed it to the duty officer, who ran to an adjoining room and thrust it at Marshal Moskanko, who had just finished his conversation with Bakunin about the Green Beret officer in Tashkent. The defense minister put down his coffee and asked: “From Washington?”
“Yes, sir.”
Moskanko read it quickly and bellowed: “Put me through to Serkin!”
While he reread the message he lighted a huge cigar with trembling hands.
Professor Serkin came on the line and Moskanko said: “Serkin, I need your advice. Listen to this. It’s a note I just got from the White House.”
WE HAVE YOUR BLUEPRINTS. WE ALSO HAVE OPERATIONAL LASER WEAPON. IF YOU PERSIST IN YOUR ULTIMATUM, WE WILL REGRETFULLY PROCEED TO DESTRUCTION OF MOSCOW. EXPECT ANSWER BEFORE EXPIRATION OF YOUR ULTIMATUM OR EVENTS WILL TAKE THEIR NATURAL COURSE.
Moskanko’s hands were clammy as he realized the impact of Stark’s words. The gamble was lost if the Americans were indeed in possession of the same weapon. The defense minister said: “Is he bluffing or not, Serkin? Can they actually have one ready?”
Serkin tried to think through the defense minister’s persistent questioning.
“I just do not know the exact state of their development, Marshal. If your intelligence people could help me there, then I could make a more detailed assessment.”
“Fair enough. I’ll have a conference call set up so we can discuss this more logically. By the way, is everything ready?”
Serkin was silent for a minute.
“Serkin, is…”
“Yes, Marshal, the laser is fully operational. We need only ten minutes lead time to carry out a firing.”
“Good, good. I’ll be back to you shortly.”
Moskanko hung up and called for a battery of intelligence experts to be brought to him within a half hour. He looked once more at Stark’s hot line and cursed the President of the United States of America.
Four men joined Moskanko in twenty minutes — Omskuschin and Fedoseyev, who had been awakened from a few precious minutes of sleep, and two civilians. They sat on a long couch while the defense minister took off his khaki tunic and unbuttoned his regulation shirt. He threw his tie onto the desk. A waiter came in with vodka and mineral water, and the men poured tiny glasses of the colorless liquid. They drained them at a gulp and reached for the mineral water to wash it down. While they munched black bread, the glasses were filled once more.
The florid-faced Moskanko smacked his lips. “Gentlemen, we have come up against a thorny problem. President Stark has told us two things: one, he has those damn blueprints Rudenko smuggled out, and, worse, he claims he has an operational weapon ready. Now, what I want to know beyond a shadow of a doubt is whether he is lying.” The four men were silent. “Because if he is not lying, and I go ahead with my plans, Moscow will be gone in seconds.”
The two marshals tried to speak at the same time. Moskanko waved his hand and said, “Brukov, what do you have to say?” Sergei Brukov headed North American espionage operations for the KGB. It was to him that all agent’s reports from the United States and Canada were routed; it was from him that all agents were sent out. Brukov was a brilliant man, fluent in six languages, a poet, a chess master. He was also an extraordinary spy himself. For six years he had lived in the United States as an Illegal and spied on research in nuclear weapons. The unusually talented Brukov was totally unprepossessing. At the age of fifty-two, he was gaunt, sallow-faced. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, and his teeth were mottled by years of accumulated tobacco tar. He smiled easily and now turned his pleasant gaze toward the defense minister.
“Dear friend and comrade, I do not believe you have reason to worry. Of course, I cannot be positive, but our latest reports indicate the Americans cannot possibly catch up to us in so short a time. As you know, we have access through Raymond Darnell, the scientist. He has faithfully transmitted progress reports to us by way of our consulate in Chicago, and he has declared flatly that because of money problems the U.S. has gone ever so slowly on the gun. In fact, because their Congress was so pressured by all the dissension in the country, scientists there were prevented from having the gun maybe a year before we did.”
Omskuschin interrupted: “But with the blueprints could they have worked out a quick solution and leapfrogged the time needed to fire a prototype. That is what really worries me. I do not underestimate the American technical capability one bit.”
Brukov frowned and shrugged his shoulders. “That I cannot tell you. But as for their progress up to, let us say a week ago, there is not a chance they could be prepared.”
“What about your end, Shumilov?” Moskanko asked.
Konstantin Shumilov, the Soviet director of intelligence for space activities, controlled the observations of all Soviet spy satellites. The forty-two-year-old Shumilov was quick to reply.
“We have had absolutely no emissions from the American sector. Either from Lincoln Lab or anywhere else on the continent. Absolutely none.”
“Could they have tested it out in the Pacific or down range in the Atlantic?” Fedoseyev asked.
“No possibility. We would have seen it or sensed it. The Cosmos groupings have orbits that cover the areas mentioned on a continual basis. No place is left unattended for more than five minutes.”
“Yes, but could they not have allowed for that and fired within that five-minute period?” Moskanko snapped.
“It is possible, Marshal. Let us say they shot out of Lincoln Lab and we missed it there; I am sure we would have picked it up at point of impact. Besides, the wide eye of the cameras and sensors would have caught the trajectory at an off angle regardless of where it impacted.”
Moskanko was not convinced. “Get Serkin in on this now.” A conference call was arranged, and Serkin announced his presence at the laser works.