Dogin looked at Grovlev. He couldn’t tell him everything. He couldn’t tell him about his plans for the military or his involvement with the Russian mafia. Most Russians thought that they were still a provincial peasant people without a worldview. Upon hearing his plans, Grovlev might back down or decide to support Zhanin.
Dogin said, “Mr. Minister, I don’t trust you.”
Grovlev stiffened.
“And from your questions,” Dogin continued, “it’s obvious you don’t trust me either. I intend to earn that trust through deeds, and you must do the same. Zhanin knows who his enemies are, and now he has the power of the presidency. He may offer you a post or an appointment you may be tempted to take. And you might then be required to work against me. For the next seventy-two hours, I must ask you to be patient.”
“Why seventy-two hours?” asked the young, blueeyed Ministry of Security Assistant Director Skule.
“That’s how long it will take for my command center to become operational.”
Skule froze. “Seventy-two hours? You can’t mean St. Petersburg. ”
Dogin nodded once.
“You control that?”
He nodded again.
Skule exhaled and the other men looked at him. “My most sincere compliments, Minister. That puts the entire world in your hands.”
“Quite literally,” Dogin grinned. “Just like General Secretary Stalin.”
“Excuse me,” said Grovlev, “but once again I’m on the outside looking in. Minister Dogin, what exactly is this ‘thing’ you control?”
“The St. Petersburg Operations Center,” Dogin replied, “the most sophisticated reconnaissance and communications facility in Russia. With it, we can access everything from satellite views of the world to electronic communications. The Center also has its own field personnel for ‘surgical strike’ operations.”
Grovlev seemed confused. “Are you talking about the television station at the Hermitage?”
“Yes,” Dogin said. “It’s a front, Minister Grovlev.
“Your ministry approved the finances for an operational facade, a working TV studio. But the money for the underground complex came from my department. And the funding continues to come from the Interior Ministry.” Dogin thumbed his chest. “From me.”
Grovlev sat back down. “You’ve been planning this operation for quite some time.”
“For over two years,” Dogin replied. “We go online Monday night.”
“And this Center,” said Dhaka. “It’s your command post for more than simply spying on Zhanin during these seventy-two hours.”
“Very much more than spying,” said Dogin.
“But you won’t tell us what!” Grovlev huffed. “You want our cooperation but you won’t cooperate!”
Dogin said ominously, “You want me to confide in you, Mr. Minister? Fair enough. For the past six months, my man in the Operations Center has been using personnel as well as the electronics that were already installed to watch all of my potential allies as well as my rivals. We’ve collected a great deal of information about graft, liaisons, and-he glared at Grovlev- “unusual personal interests. I’ll be happy to share this information with you collectively or individually, now or later.”
Some of the men moved uneasily in their chairs. Grovlev sat rock-still.
“You bastard,” Grovlev growled.
“Yes,” said Dogin, “I am that. A bastard who will get the job done.” The Interior Minister looked at his watch, then walked over to GrovIev and stared down into his narrow eyes. “I must leave now, Minister. I have a meeting with the new President. There are congratulations to tender, some papers for him to sign. But within twelve hours, you’ll be able to judge for yourself whether I’m working for vanity, or” -he pointed to the flag on the monitor–for this.”
With a nod to the silent assembly, Minister Dogin left the office. His aide in tow, he hurried to a car that would take him to Zhanin and then back here. And alone, with the door closed, he would place the call that would set events in motion that would change the world.
TWO
Saturday, 10:30 A.M., MOSCOW
Keith Fields-Hutton burst into his room in the newly renovated Rossiya Hotel, tossed his key on the dresser, and ran into the bathroom. On the way, he stooped and grabbed two curled pieces of fax paper that had fallen from the dresser-top machine he’d brought with him.
This was the part of his job he hated the most. Not the danger, which was at times considerable; not the protracted hours of sitting in airports waiting for Aeroflot flights that never came, which was typical; and not the long weeks of being away from Peggy, which were most frustrating of all.
What he hated most were all those goddamn cups of tea he had to drink.
When he came to Moscow once a month, Fields-Hutton always stayed at the Rossiya, just east of the Kremlin, and took long breakfasts in their elegant cafe. It gave him time to read the newspapers from front to back. More importantly, constantly draining his teacup gave Andrei, the waiter, a reason to come over with refills and three, four, or sometimes five fresh tea bags. Attached to the string of every bag was a label that bore the name Chashka Chai on the outside. Inside each tag was a circular spot of microfilm which Fields-Hutton pocketed when no one was looking. Most of the time, the maitre d’ was looking, so Fields-Hutton had to recover the film when other patrons came into the restaurant, distracting him.
Andrei was one of Peggy’s finds. His name came from a list of former soldiers, and she later learned that he had originally intended to make money working in a West Siberian oil settlement. But he was wounded in Afghanistan and, after back surgery, he could no longer lift heavy gear. After Gorbachev, he could no longer afford to live. He was the perfect man to shuttle data between deeply buried operatives whose names he didn’t know, whose faces he never saw, and Fields-Hutton. If Andrei was ever caught, only Fields-Hutton was at risk … and that came with the territory.
Despite what many People Outside the intelligence community believed, the KGB hadn’t collapsed with the fall of Communism. To the contrary, as the new Ministry of security, it was more pervasive than ever. The agency had simply changed from an army of professionals into an even larger force of civilian freelancers. These operatives were paid for each solid lead theyturned in. As a result, veterans and amateurs alike werelooking everywhere for spies. Peggy called it a Russianversion of Entertainment Tonight, with stringers everywhere. And she was right. The quarry was foreigners instead of celebrities, but the goal was the same: to report on furtive or suspicious activities. And because so many businesspeople assumed there was no longer a threat, they stumbled into trouble by helping Russian associates exchange rubles for dollars or ‘ marks, by bringing in jewelry or expensive clothes for the black market, or by spying on rival foreign companies doing business here. Instead of being prosecuted, foreign priszines, as well as videocassettes and toys featuring characters the Russians had designed. From the start, Fields-Hutton was amazed at how the gift of a superhero mug or bath towel or sweatshirt won him favors from airline employees, hotel workers, and even the police. Whether they turned around and sold the items on the black market or gave them to their kids, barter was a powerful tool in Russia.
With all the magazines and toys he carried, it was easy to hide the microfilm-sometimes wrapped around the staple of a comic book, other times rolled inside a hollow claw on the hand of a Tigerman action figure. Ironically, the comic book operation had taken on a life of its own, and British Intelligence was actually collecting a handsome royalty from the licenses. The organization’s charter prohibited money-making ventures”This is, after all, the government,” Winston Churchill once told an agent who wanted to sell a code-breaking toy. However, then-Prime Minister John Major and the Parliament agreed to let the comic book profits go to social programs to help the families of slain or disabled British operatives.
Though he had come to love the comic book business, and decided he would become a novelist when he retired-with more than enough material for realistic thrillers-FieldsHutton’s real job with British Intelligence was to keep an eye on both foreign and domestic construction projects in Eastern Russia. Secret rooms, hidden bugs, and subsubbasements were still being built and, when found and eavesdropped on, they provided a wealth of intelligence. His present contactsAndrei and Leon, an illustrator who lived in an apartment in St. Petersburg-provided him with blueprints and on-site photographs of all the new buildings going up and renovations taking place on old ones within his territory.
After leaving the bathroom, Fields-Hutton sat on the edge of the bed, took the tea-bag tags from his pocket, and tore them open. Carefully, he removed each circular piece of microfilm and slipped them in turn into a highpowered magnifier-which, he told customs, he brought to look at transparencies of paintings for cover art. (“Yes, sir, I have many more Grim Ghost baseball caps than I need. Of course you can have one for your son. Why don’t you take some for his friends as well?”)