“They’ve got this new trouble on the border with China. Their satellite states in Eastern Europe are uneasy; the invasion of Czechoslovakia is only a year old, Poland has been restless since they returned Gomulka to power back in Fifty-eight. The grain crop this year is below expectation. There are meat shortages in the countryside. They have a lot on their plate.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk.
“But that notwithstanding, we have to assume that the Soviets might move to retaliate against the American destruction of their submarine. Their missile submarines may not be as bottled up as the Americans think they are. When the Egyptians mined the desert approaches in the 1947 war how did we break through the mine fields? We sacrificed the lead tanks to the mines and went through the mine fields along the path of the sacrificed tanks.” He looked at Lev Tolar. “Couldn’t the Soviets do the same thing, run one small submarine out through the mine fields and then follow the cleared path with the rest of the missile submarines?”
“It’s not quite like a desert mine field,” Tolar answered. “The mines the Americans use are not mines in the true sense of the word. They are modified torpedoes that lie on the bottom, inert. They have to be activated by a sonar signal and after that is done when a ship passes over them they rise from the bottom and go to full speed and chase down the ship, using a sonar device in the nose of the torpedo that homes on the noise of the ship’s propellers.
“That leaves a gap in the mine field, yes. But an American submarine lying well clear of the mine field can energize all the other passive torpedoes with sonar signals and set them free of the bottom to sink any other ships that go through the mine field.”
“Interesting,” Bernstein said. “Do the Soviets know of this?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Tolar said. “It is a very deep secret. We found out about it when they began to modify their older torpedoes to turn them into passive mines.”
Bernstein massaged his small gray goatee with the fingers of his right hand. “It might be a good idea to let the Soviets know about this,” he mused. “It might be something that would give them cause to be very cautious.” He looked at his people, his face grim.
“Our best national interest is quite clear. It is to prevent a nuclear war between the two superpowers. I must think about it some more but I think the Soviets should know about the torpedo mines.”
“If you decide to tell them, how will you do it?” Naomi asked.
“Shevenko,” Bernstein said.
“He can’t be trusted,” Shemanski growled.
“True,” Bernstein said. He smiled faintly. “None of us can be trusted by someone from another nation, not if we think first of our own nation. But in all the years I have known Igor Shevenko I have never known him not to pay back a favor or a debt. If he has this information it will give him another lever to use in his disagreements with the Soviet admirals and their hardliner backers in the Politburo.” He rose from his chair.
“Thank you,” he said. “We all have work to do.”
The weather in Moscow had turned unseasonably warm and a soft, misting rain was falling, blurring the sharp icy edges of the snow piled along the sides of the sidewalks. Igor Shevenko left his office and walked the two blocks between his office and the Kremlin with long, firm strides, breathing in the warm, moist air with relish. At the Kremlin he turned north and slowed his pace, heading for a worker’s cafeteria near Sverdlov Square. He pushed through the door of the cafeteria and his nostrils were assaulted by the heavy, warm smells of rain-soggy clothes and the odors of cooking. He shouldered his way through the early lunch crowd and found a table back in a corner of the room. Anton Simonov entered the cafeteria a few moments later and stood looking around the room. He saw Shevenko and joined him.
“A good change,” Shevenko said as Simonov sat down. “A little warm rain is better than a lot of wet snow.” He looked up at the waiter who was standing near the table.
“Cabbage soup, a cold pork sandwich, and beer.” The waiter looked at Simonov, who nodded and said he would have the same.
“This break in the weather probably means we will be freezing our asses off this time next week,” Simonov said. “I like to see winter stay winter until it is over and done with. I don’t like these little periods of warm weather.”
“Did you like it in Egypt when you were there?” Shevenko grinned at the other man. He broke a piece of bread into chunks and began to chew one of the pieces.
“No. Too damned hot there. Day and night no relief from that damned muggy heat. And filth? Cairo has to be the world’s dirtiest city.” He pulled his chair into position as the waiter put two bowls of steaming cabbage soup on the table.
“Anything happen last night, after we talked?” Shevenko asked.
“The usual thing,” Simonov said. He blew on a spoonful of soup and tested the temperature with his tongue before putting it into his mouth. “Your boy, excuse me, your aide was picked up in an alley near your office by his friend in his official car. We have pictures of that. We have pictures of the two of them getting out of the car in front of the friend’s apartment. The friend must like your aide, he patted him on his ass on the way to the apartment door.
“Your aide came out of the apartment at one this morning and the friend’s car took him home. The film taken at his apartment shows the same routine.” He bent his head to his soup bowl and spooned up the savory liquid. He finished the soup and shoved the bowl away as the waiter put two plates, each with a thick sandwich of coarse bread and cold pork, on the table with two steins of beer.
Simonov grimaced, his open lips showing a tooth capped in stainless steel. “It’s a damned disgusting business, you know that? Your aide gets buggered and then he comes home and buggers his roommate.”
“Did you get pictures last night?”
“Oh, sure. We took over the apartment next door to your aide’s apartment. The pictures are in my briefcase.” He raised the case from the floor and put it back down. “Also cassettes, copies of the cassettes we made over the past three weeks in your aide’s apartment. Turns your stomach to listen to them.”
“The friend’s driver,” Shevenko said.
“We own him,” Simonov said. “He’s a sailor. Charged once with sodomy. The man he drives for got him off. I think the whole Navy is homosexual.”
Shevenko grinned. “You know what Winston Churchill said when he was in charge of the English Navy? He said the quote unquote glorious days of wooden ships and iron men were really days of beatings and buggery. How do you own the driver?”
“You start following one lead and you uncover six others,” Simonov said. “You know how it is. The driver has a little friend, a little fop who writes about the ballet for magazines. We took pictures of the two of them and then leaned on the driver. He will co-operate. His boss lets your aide play with him in the back of the car. The driver knows what goes on. If necessary he’ll testify to save his own skin.” He looked at Shevenko as he washed down a mouthful of the coarse bread and pork with a swallow of beer.
“It’s a damned dangerous situation, my old friend. With a snake in your grass such as you have you’d better be damned careful where you step.” He raised his hand and the waiter brought two more steins of beer and took away the empty plates.
“If I may suggest it, old friend, let me eliminate your aide and his roommate. With apartments as scarce as they are, two animals like that don’t deserve to have their own quarters. With a bath and a kitchen.”
“When do you have to show your evidence to the man who asked you to do the surveillance?” Shevenko said.
“No fixed time,” Simonov said. “Listen to me, Igor. Let me take care of this snake in your office. I’ll arrange it so you will be in the clear, depend on me for that. You don’t have to say who your aide’s friend is. You can simply say that you suspected your aide and that his death came before you could bring charges against him. With both of them eliminated part of your problem goes away. With what I have got, while it’s only circumstantial, the driver and the death of your aide makes what I do have damned heavy circumstantial evidence. Enough for the man who wanted the surveillance done to use his weight. And he is one who knows how to do that.”