An hour later Waters, Sara and Chief Pullman met the Gomezes as they came into the terminal with their two teenage daughters and Bill Carroll in tow. On the way to Stonewood Waters summarized the status of the wing.
Tom stared at the passing countryside, then said, “Seems we’re in big trouble, Muddy. I’ve had the analysts in the Watch Center looking at the situation in the Gulf since I last talked to you… Bill, this is really your area. You want to tell Muddy the bad news?”
Lieutenant Carroll nodded. “It’s a mess, for sure, sir. Let me find out what information wing Intel has and I’ll get back to you. I can tell you now, though, we’re going to have to do something about the crazies down there. It’s getting real bad.”
The mist escaping from the steam rooms rose above the icy-cold waters of the pool and drifted up past the horseshoe-shaped balcony to break against the hard cold of the bathhouse’s skylight. During the summer the chains that worked the elaborate bronze fittings of the glass panes in the skylight would be pulled and swing open. But the Moscow winter had frozen them shut. The General Secretary swung his legs off the massage table in one of the large curtained alcoves that lined the balcony and tugged a soft white turkish bathrobe across his broad shoulders. He stared down at his body and decided that his belly would soon match his shoulders. Too bad, he thought. Once his body had narrowed to a slim waist and taut stomach. The poundings of a masseur could only delay the inevitable.
Although he was one of the three most powerful men on earth, the General Secretary liked to use the Royal Banya, a carefully preserved leftover from the days of the czar. The stern economies of Lenin, the purges and disruption of the Stalin years and the excesses of the Brezhnev regime had not reached the bathhouse, which still reflected the glory days of its origin more than one hundred years ago. And the news that the General Secretary preferred a public bath had been carefully leaked, adding to his considerable popularity, even though the Royal Banya was not a place that the average Russian male would be allowed to use even if he could find it.
The walking tree stump of a man who served as the General Secretary’s personal servant, bodyguard and court jester stuck his head through the heavy curtains. “Comrade Rafik Ulyanoff wants to see you. Claims that he has pressing business. Politburo business no doubt.”
“I suppose this is necessary,” the General Secretary grumbled.
“I’ll give him a quick drowning lesson if you wish to be left alone. Even the head of the Defense Council should try the pool waters from time to time.” It was the Tartar’s idea of a joke, but a smile never crossed his Mongolian features.
Rank Ulyanoff was the third most powerful man in the Soviet Union and as head of the Politburo’s Defense Council could demand access to the General Secretary at almost any time. But even he did not wish to antagonize the dwarf-like Tartar who guarded the Communist Party chief. It was rumored that the Tartar had killed numerous men and women with his bare hands, usually breaking their necks with ease, when serving the General Secretary in his rise through the KGB. Ulyanoff waited impatiently until the curtain was held aside for him to enter. Years before, Ulyanoff had made a promise to himself that the Tartar would experience a lingering, most unpleasant old age once the General Secretary was deposed… retired.
“We must talk about Ashkhabad,” Ulyanoff said at once.
The General Secretary looked through him. “And I thought we were going to discuss something urgent. Perhaps a place with more privacy?” He heaved his body off the massage table and slipped his feet into freshly washed slippers.
The Tartar led the two men around the balcony to where it ended at a paneled wall. When he pressed a concealed button the panel swung open into a large room, almost fifty feet to a side. The red damask walls, Persian rugs, inlaid tiles in the floor and heavy furniture reminded the General Secretary of a harem. He did not like or approve of the room, but it was the most secure place for a private conversation in the bathhouse.
A girl rose from one of the chaise longues and walked toward them. On the streets of Moscow, bundled up against the cold, she would have passed unnoticed. But walking across the rugs, blonde hair swaying against her shoulders and hips moving rhythmically to some inner song, the naked girl was indeed breathtaking.
The General Secretary preferred the banya to remain an all-male institution and looked inquiringly at his bodyguard.
“Part of Comrade Rokossovsky’s traveling furniture,” the Tartar said, motioning the girl to leave. Rokossovsky was the youngest voting member of the Politburo and one of the four members of the Defense Council, well inside Ulyanoff’s pocket.
The General Secretary found a wing chair near the fire-place and sat down. “Please be comfortable,” he told the older man. “Enjoy the fire.”
Ulyanoff did not take the invitation but paced the floor. “Why are you directing a buildup of forces in Turkmen around Ashkhabad? I’ve also learned that the arms shipments to Iraq are being redirected there. All this, sir, is not part of our policy.” Ashkhabad was at the head of a mountain pass that led through the Kopet mountains into northern Iran. The border was less than twenty miles away. A buildup there, Ulyanoff reasoned, could only mean…
“A minor adjustment of our forces. Nothing more. This could have waited for our next meeting.”
“To sustain such a buildup on the southern edge of the Tsentralnyye Desert is foolish. A waste of resources.”
The General Secretary was silent for a moment. “You don’t think Comrade Kalin-Tegov would approve?”
The mention of the Communist Party’s theoretician and Ulyanoff’s most powerful supporter on the Politburo didn’t faze Ulyanoff. “You know Kalin-Tegov,” Ulyanoff said, “three steps forward, two steps backward.” He was clearly upset.
“Perhaps this time we’ll take only one step back.”
“The alignment of our defenses falls to the Defense Council.” Ulyanoff had to restrain himself not to shout.
“The Iraqis are proving to be poor allies,” the General Secretary said. “They don’t continue to press for victory against the Iranians.”
Ulyanoff was near-speechless. At last he saw a complete pattern before him. “You can’t desert the Iraqis now. Let them carry out our goals in the Persian Gulf. An invasion of Iran out of Ashkhabad would be suicidal. The Americans would intervene. It would lead to World War Three… That’s it, isn’t it? Kalin-Tegov approves of this adventurism.” Ulyanoff saw a pit before him. Kalin-Tegov had always favored a more aggressive policy in the Persian Gulf and now had thrown in with the General Secretary. Which to Ulyanoff meant his own position on the Politburo was crumbling. He left the room without another word, needing privacy to calculate how best to shore up his defenses…
The Tartar drew a cup of hot water from a samovar, dropped in a bag of Earl Grey tea, which the General Secretary preferred, and carried the steeping tea to him.
The General Secretary accepted the cup and settled into thought. “Did Ulyanoff know the girl was here?” he asked the Tartar.
“No. The look on his face gave him away. Ulyanoff agrees with you about banyas. It’s the only point where he agrees with you. He didn’t even know who she belonged to.”
“That was a mistake.”
“Rokossovsky is making many mistakes over her.”
“Then Comrade Rokossovsky is fond of the blonde nymph?”