No one had seen the truck driver drop a small, rectangular box in the river as he turned away.
ONE
Saturday, 10:00 A.M., MOSCOW
Tall, powerfully built Minister of the Interior Nikolai Dogin sat behind the centuries-old oak desk in his office in the Kremlin. There was a computer in the center of the heavy, age-toned desk. To his right was a black telephone and a small, framed photograph of his parents sat on his left. The snapshot had a horizontal crease in the center. It had been folded by his father so he could carry it in his shirt pocket during the War.
Dogin’s silver-gray hair was brushed straight back. His cheeks were sunken and his dark eyes looked tired. His plain, brown GUM department store suit was wrinkled, and his light brown shoes were scuffed-a careful, studied rumpledness that had worked so well for so many years.
But not this week, he thought bitterly.
For the first time in thirty years of public service, his man-of-the-people image had failed him. With his characteristic intensity, he had given his people the nationalism they had said they wanted. He voiced renewed pride in the military, and fanned suspicion of old enemies. Yet the people had turned on him.
Dogin knew why, of course. His rival, Kiril Zhanin, had cast out a tattered net one last, glorious time to try and snare the flounder of Old Peter’s fairy tale, the fish of-the-sea that would make every wish come true.
Capitalism.
While Dogin waited for his assistant, he looked past the seven men seated before him. His dark eyes were focused on the walls, on a history of the success of totalitarianism.
Like his desk, the Walls reeked of history. They were covered with ornately framed maps, some of them centuries old, maps of Russia under different Czars going back to the reign of Ivan. Dogin’s tired eyes took them all in, from a faded vellum map painted, it was said, with the blood of captured Teutonic Knights, to a cloth map of the Kremlin which had been sewn inside the pant leg of a murdered German assassin.
The world as it was, he thought as his eyes settled upon a map of the Soviet Union that Gherman S. Titov had carried into space in 1961. The world as it will be again.
The seven men sitting on sofas and armchairs were also drawn with age. Most of them were fifty or older, some of them were over sixty. Most wore suits, some had on uniforms. None spoke. The silence was broken only by the hum of the fan in the back of the computerand then, finally, by a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Dogin felt his heart sink as the door opened and a fresh-faced young man stepped in. There was a profound sadness in the youth’s eyes, and Dogin knew what that meant.
“Well?” Dogin demanded.
“I’m sorry,” the young man said softly, “but it’s official. I reviewed the figures myself.”
Dogin nodded. “Thank you.”
“Shall I make the arrangements?”
Dogin nodded again and the young man backed from the office. He shut the door quietly as he left.
Now Dogin looked at the men. Like him, their expressions hadn’t changed. “This was not unexpected,” said the Minister of the Interior. He moved the photograph of his parents closer, running the back of his fingers down the glass. He seemed to be speaking to them. “Foreign Minister Zhanin has won the election. It’s the time, you know. Everyone’s giddy with liberty, but it’s liberty without responsibility, freedom without sanity, experimentation without caution. Russia has elected a president who wants to create a new currency, make our economy a slave to what we can sell abroad. Eliminate the black market by making the rubles and goods it holds utterly worthless. Eliminate political rivals by making it impossible to oust him lest it upset foreign markets. Eliminate the military as an adversary by paying the Generals more money to serve his policies than to protect Mother Russia. ‘Like Germany and Japan,’ he tells us, ‘an economically strong Russia needs fear no enemy.”‘ Dogin’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his father’s image. “For seventy years we feared no enemy. Your hero Stalin did not rule Russia, he ruled the world! His name itself came from stal-steel. Our people were made of it then. And they responded to power. Today, they seek comfort and respond to audacity and empty promises.”
“Welcome to democracy, my dear Nikolai,” said General Viktor Mavik, a barrel-chested man with a booming voice. “Welcome to a world in which NATO courts the Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland, nations of the former Warsaw Pact, to join the Western alliance without so much as consulting us.”
Deputy Finance Minister Yevgeny Grovlev leaned forward, his sharp chin resting on his thumbs, his slender fingers steepled under his hooked nose. “We must be careful not to overreact,” he said. “Zhanin’s reforms won’t happen fast enough. The people will turn on him faster than they did on Gorbachev and Yeltsin.”
“My adversary is young but not stupid,” Dogin replied. “He wouldn’t have made promises without agreements being in place. And when he pulls them off, the Germans and Japanese will have what they failed to obtain in World War II. The United States will own what it failed to get during the Cold War. In one way or another, they will all possess Mother Russia.”
Dogin turned his eyes to one more map: the map of Russia and Eastern Europe on his computer screen. He pressed a key and Eastern Europe grew larger. Russia vanished.
“A keystroke of history and we’re gone,” he said.
“Only by our inactivity,” said lanky GrovIev.
“Yes,” Dogin agreed. “By our inactivity.” The room was growing stuffy and he dabbed the moisture on his upper lip with a tissue. “The people have thrown off their mistrust of foreigners for the promise of wealth. But we’ll show them that isn’t the way.” He looked out at the men in the room. “The fact that you or your candidates lost the election shows how confused our people have become. But the fact that you are here this morning indicates that you want to do something about it.”
“We do,” General Mavik said, running a finger inside his collar. “And we trust your abilities. You were a strong mayor in Moscow and a loyal Communist in the Politburo. But in our first meeting you told us very little of what you planned if the old guard failed to retake the Kremlin. Well, the old guard has failed. Now I would like some details.”
“So would I,” said Air Force General Dhaka. His gray eyes glared from beneath a heavy brow. “Any one of us would make a formidable opposition leader. Why should we back you? You promised us a cooperative action with Ukraine. So far, we’ve only seen a few Russian infantry maneuvers near the border which Zhanin himself quickly approved. Even if joint maneuvers take place, what does that accomplish? Old Soviet brothers are reunited, and the West trembles a little. How will that help us to rebuild Russia? If we’re to join you we must have specifics.”
Dogin looked at the General. Dhaka’s full cheeks were flushed, his pendulous chin raw where it met his tightly knotted tie. The Minister knew that the specifics would send most of them rallying behind Mavik or even running to Zhanin.
He looked at each of the men in turn. In most faces he saw conviction and strength, while in others-Mavik and Grovlev in particular-he saw interest but wariness. Their hesitation angered him because he was the only one who offered Russia salvation. Yet he remained calm.
“You want specifics?” Dogin asked. He typed a command on the computer keyboard then swung the monitor so it faced the seven men. As the hard disk hummed, the Interior Minister looked at his father’s picture. The elder Dogin had been a decorated soldier during the War, and one of Stalin’s most trusted bodyguards afterward. He once told his son that during the War he had learned to carry only one thing with him: the country’s flag. Wherever he was, in any circumstance, in any danger, it would always find him a friend or ally.
When the disk drive fell silent, Dogin and five men rose at once. Mavik and Grovlev exchanged suspicious looks, then slowly got to their feet. Both men saluted.
“This is how I plan to rebuild Russia,” Dogin said. He came around the desk and pointed to the image that filled the computer monitor, a yellow star, hammer, and sickle on a red field-the old Soviet flag. “By reminding people of their duty. Patriots will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary, whatever the plan and regardless of the cost.”
The men sat down, save for Grovlev.
“We’re all patriots,” said the Finance Minister, “and I resent the theatrics. If I’m to put my resources in your hands, I want to know how they’ll be used. For a coup? A second revolution? Or don’t you trust us with this information, Mr. Minister?”