One by one, like wary stragglers in the early light, the five men and three women arrived at the run-down entrance of the abandoned store in the back street known only as the Vavilova. Their caution was understandable; it was a district to be avoided, although not necessarily because of unsavory inhabitants, for the Moscow police were ruthlessly thorough in such areas, but because of the stretch of decrepit buildings. The area was in the process of renovation; however, like similar projects in urban blights the world over, the progress had two speeds: slow and stop. The only constant, which was at best a dangerous convenience, was the existence of electricity, and Carlos used it to his advantage.
He stood at the far end of the bare concrete room, a lamp on the floor behind him, silhouetting him, leaving his features undefined and further obscured by the upturned collar of his black suit. To his right was a wreck of a low wooden table with file folders spread across the top, and to his left, under a pile of newspapers, unseen by his “disciples,” was a cut-down Type 56, AK-47 assault weapon. A forty-round magazine was inserted, a second magazine in the Jackal’s belt. The only reason for the weapon was the normal custom of his trade; he expected no difficulty whatsoever. Only adoration.
He surveyed his audience, noting that all eight kept glancing furtively at one another. No one talked; the dank air in the eerily lit abandoned store was tense with apprehension. Carlos understood that he had to dispel that fear, that furtiveness, as rapidly as possible, which was why he had gathered eight distressed chairs from the various deserted office rooms in the rear of the store. Seated, people were less tense; it was a truism. However, none of the chairs was being used.
“Thank you for coming here this morning,” said the Jackal in Russian, raising his voice. “Please, each of you take a chair and sit down. Our discussion will not be long, but will require the utmost concentration. … Would the comrade nearest the door close it, please. Everyone is here.”
The old, heavy door was creaked shut by a stiffly walking bureaucrat as the rest reached for chairs, each distancing his and hers from others that were nearby. Carlos waited until the scraping sounds of wood against cement subsided and all were seated. Then, like a practiced orator-actor, the Jackal paused before formally addressing his captive audience. He looked briefly at each person with his penetrating dark eyes as if conveying to each that he or she was special to him. There were short, successive hand movements, mostly female, as those he gazed at in turn smoothed their respective garments. The clothes they wore were characteristic of the ranks of upper-level government officials—in the main drab and conservative, but well pressed and spotless.
“I am the monseigneur from Paris,” began the assassin in priestly garb. “I am he who has spent several years seeking each of you out—with the assistance of comrades here in Moscow and beyond—and sent you large sums of money, asking only that you silently await my arrival and render me the loyalty I have shown to you. … By your faces, I can anticipate your questions, so let me amplify. Years ago I was among the elite few selected to be trained at Novgorod.” There was a quiet yet audible reaction from the chosen eight. The myth of Novgorod matched its reality; it was, indeed, an advanced indoctrination center for the most gifted of comrades—as they were given to understand, yet none really understood, for Novgorod was rarely spoken about except in whispers. With several nods, Carlos acknowledged the impact of his revelation and continued.
“The years since have been spent in many foreign countries promoting the interests of the great Soviet revolution, an undercover commissar with a flexible portfolio that called for many trips back here to Moscow and extensive research into the specific departments in which each of you holds a responsible position.” Again the Jackal paused, then spoke suddenly, sharply. “Positions of responsibility but without the authority that should be yours. Your abilities are undervalued and under-rewarded, for there is deadwood above you.”
The small crowd’s reaction was now somewhat more audible, definitely less constrained. “Compared to similar departments in the governments of our adversaries,” went on Carlos, “we here in Moscow have lagged far behind when we should be ahead, and we are behind because your talents have been suppressed by entrenched officeholders who care more for their office privileges than they do for the functions of their departments!”
The response was immediate, even electric, with the three women openly if softly applauding. “It is for that reason, these reasons, that I and my associate comrades here in Moscow have sought you out. Further, it is why I have sent you funds—to be used totally at your discretion—for the money you’ve received is the approximate value of the privileges your superiors enjoy. Why should you not receive them and enjoy them as they do?”
The rumble of why not? and he’s right rippled through the audience, now actually looking at one another, eyes locked, and heads nodding firmly. The Jackal then began to reel off the eight major departments in question, and as each was named successively, there was an enthusiastic nodding of heads. “The ministries of Transport, Information, Finance, Import/Export, Legal Procedures, Military Supply, Scientific Research … and hardly the least, Presidium Appointments. … These are your domains, but you have been cut out from all final decisions. That is no longer acceptable—changes must be made!”
The assembled listeners rose almost as one, no longer strangers but, instead, people united in a cause. Then one, the obviously cautious bureaucrat who had closed the door, spoke. “You appear to know our situations well, sir, but what can change them?”
“These,” announced Carlos, gesturing dramatically at the file folders spread out across the low table. Slowly the small group sat down, singly and in couples, looking at one another when not staring at the folders. “On this table are secretly gathered confidential dossiers of your superiors in each of the departments represented here. They contain such injurious information that when presented by you individually will guarantee your immediate promotions, and in several cases your succession to those high offices. Your superiors will have no choice, for these files are daggers aimed at their throats—exposure would result in disgrace and execution.”
“Sir?” A middle-aged woman in a neat but nondescript plain blue dress cautiously stood up. Her blond-gray hair was swept back into a stern bun; she touched it briefly, self-consciously, as she spoke. “I evaluate personnel files on a daily basis … and frequently discover errors … how can you be certain these dossiers are accurate? For if they are not accurate, we could be placed in extremely dangerous situations, is that not so?”
“That you should even question their accuracy is an affront, madame,” replied the Jackal coldly. “I am the monseigneur from Paris. I have accurately described your individual situations and accurately depicted the inferiority of your superiors. Further, and at great expense and risk to myself and my associates here in Moscow, I have covertly funneled monies to you so as to make your lives more comfortable.”
“Speaking for myself,” interrupted a gaunt man wearing glasses and a brown business suit, “I appreciate the money—I assigned mine to our collective fund and expect a moderate return—but does one have anything to do with the other? I am with the Ministry of Finance, of course, and having admitted that, I absolve myself of complicity for being clear about my status.”
“Whatever that means, accountant, you’re about as clear as your paralyzed ministry,” interrupted an obese man in a black suit too small for his girth. “You also cast doubt on your ability to recognize a decent return! Naturally, I’m with Military Supply, and you consistently shortchange us.”
“As you do constantly with Scientific Research!” exclaimed a short, tweedy professorial member of the audience, the irregularity of his clipped beard due, no doubt, to poor vision, despite the thick spectacles bridging his nose. “Returns, indeed! What about allocations?”
“More than sufficient for your grade-school scientists! The money is better spent stealing from the West!”
“Stop it!” cried the priest-assassin, raising his arms like a messiah. “We are not here to discuss interdepartmental conflicts, for they will all be resolved with the emergence of our new elite. Remember! I am the monseigneur from Paris, and together we will bring about a new, cleansed order for our great revolution! Complacency is over.”
“It is a thrilling concept, sir,” said a second woman, a female in her early thirties, her skirt expensively pleated, her compact features obviously recognized by the others as a popular newscaster on television. “However, may we return to the issue of accuracy?”
“It is settled, “said the dark-eyed Carlos, staring in turn at each person. “How else would I know all about you?”