“Conn, Nav. GPS fix received,” the Quartermaster announced.
Wilson’s thoughts returned to the reasons for their trip to periscope depth as the first of the expected reports arrived — a satellite fix of the submarine’s position.
“Nav, Conn. Aye.” Lieutenant Victor Clark, the Officer of the Deck this afternoon, acknowledged the Quartermaster.
A moment later, Radio completed its task. “Conn, Radio. Download complete.”
Clark announced, “All stations, Conn. Going deep. Helm ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth two hundred feet.”
The watchstanders acknowledged and Michigan tilted down toward the safety of deep water. When the periscope optics slipped beneath the sea’s surface, Clark reached up and twisted the locking ring, and the periscope slid silently downward.
Not long thereafter, a radioman entered Control and handed Wilson the message board. Wilson flipped through the messages, skimming the contents.
When he finished, he handed the board to Lieutenant Clark.
“Any orders, sir?” Clark asked.
“Nope,” Wilson replied. “All quiet on the Russian front.”
13
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
“It is done,” Director Posniak announced, adding a rare smile. He reached across the Kremlin conference table, extending a hand to Christine. The week had flown by as Christine and Posniak hammered out the remaining details to the new nuclear arms reduction treaty. There’d been a few sticking points, which had taken until Friday afternoon to resolve, but the timing was perfect. Russia’s state dinner was tonight, then Christine would head to Kalinin’s summer residence in the morning. Christine glanced at her watch. It was 5 p.m., leaving just enough time to return to her hotel and change from a business suit into a formal evening gown.
Christine thanked Posniak for his assistance and bid farewell, and it wasn’t long before she stepped into her room at Hotel National. She donned a high-neck, open-back turquoise dress with lace sleeves, accessorized with diamond earrings, matching pendant, and turquoise heels. She returned to the hotel entrance, where a black limousine waited along with Christine’s interpreter, Mark Johnson, who had switched from a business suit into a tuxedo.
After the car passed through the Kremlin’s Borovitskaya Gate, it pulled to a halt not far from the Kremlin Senate, stopping behind a procession of limousines depositing their guests for the evening’s event. As the men and women stepped from their cars onto a red carpet, they were welcomed by Kremlin officials who escorted them into the green-domed building.
Christine’s car inched forward, eventually reaching the red carpet. Stepping from the sedan, Christine and Johnson were escorted by a young man to the building’s third floor, entering a ballroom with crystal chandeliers illuminating a glossy parquet floor. The room was faced with white marble, with two walls decorated with floor-to-ceiling paintings. Moscow was depicted on one wall and St. Petersburg on the other, symbolizing the centuries-long rivalry between the historic and “northern” capitals of Russia.
There was a receiving line just inside the ballroom, where Russian President Yuri Kalinin and Belarusian President Alexander Lukashenko greeted their guests. Christine wasn’t thrilled about shaking hands with President Lukashenko, a man who accumulated power and profit at the expense of his countrymen, and who had joined forces with Russia to invade Ukraine.
Christine reached Lukashenko, who was first in line, and his greeting was cold. He offered no smile and a brief handshake, moving Christine along quickly. In contrast, Kalinin smiled warmly and his handshake lingered, and he took a moment to talk with her. The usual pleasantries: how was her trip and had she taken advantage of her evenings off, taking in Moscow’s sights?
Kalinin was a handsome man, about six feet tall and two hundred pounds, and quite charismatic. In a different time and place, Christine could envision a relationship with him. But as Russia’s president and considering his recent transgressions, the prospect of a romantic involvement seemed impossible. However, establishing a strong friendship with him had its advantages — like staying alive — even if the relationship failed to develop further.
Kalinin released his handshake and offered a final smile before turning to the next guest. With Johnson’s help, Christine mingled with the exclusive crowd while additional dignitaries worked their way through the receiving line. On the other side of the ballroom, Kalinin’s chief of the general staff, General Andropov, talked with several other military officers, including the commanders-in-chief of Russia’s Ground and Aerospace Forces and Fleet Admiral Lipovsky. Waiters in tuxedos carried silver platters of drinks and hors d’oeuvres through the crowd, and Christine selected a glass of champagne when one was offered.
Several Russian dignitaries advanced and introduced themselves, with most needing the help of Christine’s interpreter. The conversations covered nothing of substance, as if she were a tourist visiting Moscow. She was talking with two men when they glanced over Christine’s shoulder, then suddenly excused themselves. Christine felt a presence behind her. She turned to find Josef Hippchenko, Russia’s new SVR director.
“May we speak in private?” Hippchenko shifted his gaze to Christine’s interpreter. Like Gorev, Hippchenko spoke excellent English.
Christine nodded to Johnson, who looked around, spotting the American ambassador. “I’ll be with the ambassador when you need me.”
Johnson left quickly, leaving Christine alone with the SVR director. Unlike Defense Minister Nechayev, Hippchenko made no effort to gloss over what Christine had done during her last trip to Russia.
“It is remarkable that you are allowed to set foot on Russian soil without being arrested.”
Christine forced a smile. “Diplomatic immunity.”
But then she recalled her conversation with the SVR agent in her townhouse, about the story the Russian administration had fabricated for the public.
“Actually, why would I be arrested for a boating accident? It was a horrible tragedy, claiming both Chernov and Director Gorev.”
“An excellent point,” Hippchenko replied. “You were fortunate you weren’t aboard. Of course, I’d have preferred you were.”
She took a sip of her champagne. “Are you always this charming?”
“Usually, I make an effort. I’ve made an exception in your case.”
Christine considered stepping away. It was clear Hippchenko’s only goal was to intimidate her. But then she decided to make the best of the situation.
“I had a visit from one of your minions the other day.”
“You don’t say,” Hippchenko replied. “Did you enjoy the conversation?”
“The next time an SVR agent steps foot in my home—”
“I know Christine,” Hippchenko interrupted. “I was in Yuri’s office when you called, and he put you on speakerphone. If another SVR agent breaks into your home, you’ll kill him yourself — good luck with that, by the way — or have one of your lackeys at Langley do it.”
Christine was taken aback. She hadn’t realized Kalinin and Hippchenko were that close. Then again, Kalinin was a former SVR director and had undoubtedly handpicked Hippchenko.