“It’s for you, sir,” said the watch officer. “It’s Premier Korol himself.”
Piatakov walked over to the telephone. He listened to Korol’s words of commendation for his splendid work, learned of the satisfaction of the entire Presidium, and then heard something about his promotion to head the entire KGB. He was sure he had heard wrong and respectfully asked the comrade premier to repeat that last sentence.
The premier did, with a solemnity that assured Piatakov that the premier wasn’t indulging in pleasantry.
Piatakov nodded, in something of a daze thanked the comrade premier for his consideration and that of the Presidium, and hung up the phone.
He walked across the floor to where the technicians were waiting with blazing torches to cut through the metal door.
General Piatakov stood for a long moment contemplating the fruits of his victory. Finally he gave the sign to go ahead, and the cutting torches began their work. They worked slowly, pausing from time to time to let the metal cool so that the Brown-Ash would remain unaffected by the heat.
Who said there wasn’t a God? thought Piatakov to himself. Not only was there a God, but a God with a marvelous sense of humor. For three years now Piatakov had been scheming and plotting and conspiring to bring off this coup, and he had succeeded brilliantly. He owed, it was true, a tremendous debt to the Israelis at Oyo, for had it not been for them, he would have had to devise a rather different stratagem. But whatever the means, he would have somehow managed to have an atom bomb delivered to Room 101, without the slightest suspicion of the masters of the Kremlin who awaited him, even now, in the conference suite.
Piatakov’s calculations had been precise. He had anticipated Forte’s reactions perfectly. And he had devised the perfect revenge for the Presidium’s having robbed him of his freedom, his brilliant career, his faith in his leaders– Armageddon: instant annihilation in one huge ball of fire. For sentencing Grisha Piatakov to die slowly down here, he had sentenced them to die swiftly above. Forte’s vengeance would be Piatakov’s vengeance, too.
Now this: God twisting the knife, making him wish that he hadn’t been so damned clever, after all.
But what if he had made a mistake? What if Forte did not actually put the bomb inside the Brown-Ash? What if nothing but the Brown-Ash was in the big red container? Then he could board the elevator and in eight minutes rejoin the human race and live out his years in useful endeavor, elevated to a seat among the mighty.
The seal was cut, the door opened, and there stood the Brown-Ash Mark IX.
The technicians inserted a dolly beneath it and carefully extracted it from the protective steel container. Eager hands unwrapped the waterproof foil. The circle of interested spectators surrounding the computer grew to include nearly all the personnel on duty in Room 101.
The chief computer technician saluted. “Shall I energize it, Comrade Lieutenant General?”
For one wild moment Piatakov considered telling them to get the computer the hell out of here, that it was a Trojan horse that would destroy them all. But for what? He would be asked, How did he know the Brown-Ash was booby-trapped? How could he answer that? And what if it didn’t contain a bomb? They would want to know why he suspected it did. There would be questions and unpleasant stimuli to encourage quick and accurate answers. And in the end?
“Yes.” Piatakov was sweating now. “Hook it up.”
“The test keyboard is ready, sir,” the technician reported a few minutes later. “Would you care to make the first entry?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Piatakov sat down in the chair provided him in front of the small green screen. A cursor blinked evilly at him.
Piatakov thought for a moment and then typed “Ripley Forte.”
A short message appeared:
Dear Sincere Friend: It is five minutes to midnight. Remember the Alamo! Ripley Forte.
Piatakov sighed and leaned back in his chair. He had quit smoking some years ago, but a cigarette wasn’t going to hurt him now. He asked for one, accepted a light, and took a deep and heady draught.
Behind him the telephone rang.
“It’s the premier again,” said the watch officer. “He wants to know if the Brown-Ash Mark IX is working properly.”
“Tell him it’s working fine.”
The watch officer reported what Comrade General Piatakov had said, then stood at attention as he listened.
“Sir. The comrade premier wants to know when you’ll be joining them.”
Piatakov thought for a moment and smiled. “Tell them I’ll be up in a minute.”
The End