What happened next was tricky. Though deemed all-powerful by the West, the KGB has always been subservient to the Party apparatus; even the KGB needed permission to trifle with a family member of so powerful an official. The head of the Second Directorate went upstairs to the KGB Chairman. He returned thirty minutes later.
“You may pick her up.”
“The Secretary of the Central Committee—”
“Has not been informed,” the General said.
“But—”
“Here are your orders.” Vatutin took the handwritten sheet, personally signed by the Chairman.
“Comrade Vaneyeva?”
She looked up to see a man in civilian clothes—GOSPLAN was a civilian agency, of course—who stared at her oddly. “Can I help you?”
“I am Captain Klementi Vladimirovich Vatutin of the Moscow Militia. I would like you to come with me.” The interrogator watched closely for a reaction, but got nothing.
“Whatever for?” she asked.
“It is possible that you can help us in the identification of someone. I cannot elaborate further here,” the man said apologetically.
“Will it take long?”
“Probably a few hours. We can have someone drive you home afterward.”
“Very well. I have nothing critical on my desk at the moment.” She rose without another word. Her look at Vatutin betrayed a certain sense of superiority. The Moscow Militia was not an organization that was lavished with respect by local citizens, and the mere rank of captain for a man of his age told her much of his career. Within a minute she had her coat on and the bundle under her arm, and they headed out of the building. At least the Captain was kulturny, she saw, holding the door open for her. Svetlana assumed from this that Captain Vatutin knew who she was—more precisely, who her father was.
A car was waiting and drove off at once. She was surprised at the route, but it wasn’t until they drove past Khokhlovskaya Square that she was sure.
“We’re not going to the Ministry of Justice?” she asked.
“No, we’re going to Lefortovo,” Vatutin replied offhandedly.
“But—”
“I didn’t want to alarm you in the office, you see. I am actually Colonel Vatutin of the Second Chief Directorate.” There was a reaction to that, but Vaneyeva recovered her composure in an instant.
“And what is it that I am to help you with, then?”
She was good, Vatutin saw. This one would be a challenge.
The Colonel was loyal to the Party, but not necessarily to its officials. He was a man who hated corruption almost as much as treason. “A small matter—you’ll doubtless be home for dinner.”
“My daughter—”
“One of my people will pick her up. If things run a little late, your father will not be upset to see her, will he?”
She actually smiled at that. “No, Father loves to spoil her.”
“It probably won’t take that long anyway,” Vatutin said, looking out the window. The car pulled through the gates into the prison. He helped her out of the car, and a sergeant held the door open for both of them. Give them hope, then take it away. He took her gently by the arm. “My office is this way. You travel to the West often, I understand.”
“It is part of my work.” She was on guard now, but no more than anyone would be here.
“Yes, I know. Your desk deals with textiles.” Vatutin opened his door and waved her in.
“That’s her!” a voice called. Svetlana Vaneyeva stopped dead, as though frozen in time. Vatutin took her arm again and directed her to a chair.
“Please sit down.”
“What is this!” she said, finally in alarm.
“This man here was caught carrying copies of secret State documents. He has told us that you gave them to him,” Vatutin said as he sat behind his desk.
Vaneyeva turned and stared at the courier. “I have never seen that face in my life! Never!”
“Yes,” Vatutin said dryly. “I know that.”
“What—” She searched for words. “But this makes no sense.”
“You’ve been very well trained. Our friend here says that his signal to pass on the information is that he runs his hand across your rump.”
She turned to face her accuser. “Govnoed! This thing said that! This”—she sputtered for another moment—”worthless person. Rubbish!”
“So you deny the charge?” Vatutin inquired. Breaking this one would really be a pleasure.
“Of course! I am a loyal Soviet citizen. I am a Party member. My father—”
“Yes, I know about your father.”
“He will hear of this, Colonel Vatutin, and if you threaten me—”
“We do not threaten you, Comrade Vaneyeva, we ask for information. Why were you on the Metro yesterday? I know that you have your own car.”
“I often ride the Metro. It is simpler than driving, and I had to make a stop.” She picked her package up off the floor. “Here. I dropped off the coat for cleaning. It is inconvenient to park the car, go in, and then drive on. So I took the underground. Same thing today, when I picked it up. You can check at the cleaners.”
“And you did not pass this to our friend here?” Vatutin held up the film cassette.
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“Of course.” Colonel Vatutin shook his head. “Well, there we are.” He pressed a button on his intercom set. The office’s side door opened a moment later. Three people came in. Vatutin waved to Svetlana. “Prepare her.”
Her reaction was not so much panic as disbelief. Svetlana Vaneyeva tried to bolt from the chair, but a pair of men grabbed her by the shoulders and held her in place. The third rolled up the sleeve on her dress and stuck a needle in her arm before she had the presence of mind to shout. “You can’t,” she said, “you can’t . . .”
Vatutin sighed. “Ah, but we can. How long?”
“That’ll keep her under for at least two hours,” the doctor replied. He and his two orderlies picked her out of the chair. Vatutin came around and got the parcel. “She’ll be ready for you as soon as I do the medical check, but I anticipate no problems. Her medical file is clean enough.”
“Excellent. I’ll be down after I have something to eat.” He gestured to the other prisoner. “You can take him away. I think we’re done with him.”
“Comrade, I—” the courier began, only to be cut off.
“Do not dare to use that word again.” The reprimand was all the harsher for its soft delivery.
Colonel Bondarenko now ran the Ministry’s laser-weapons desk. It was by the decision of Defense Minister Yazov, of course, as recommended by Colonel Filitov.
“So, Colonel, what news do you bring us?” Yazov asked.
“Our colleagues at KGB have delivered to us partial plans for the American adaptive-optics mirror.” He handed over two separate copies of the diagrams.
“And we cannot do this ourselves?” Filitov asked.
“The design is actually quite ingenious, and, the report says, an even more advanced model is in the design stages right now. The good news is that it requires fewer actuators—”
“What is that?” Yazov asked.
“The actuators are the mechanisms which alter the contours of the mirror. By lowering the number of them you also reduce the requirements of the computer system that operates the mirror assembly. The existing mirror—this one here— requires the services of an extremely powerful supercomputer, which we cannot yet duplicate in the Soviet Union. The new mirror is projected to require only a fourth as much computer power. This allows both a smaller computer to operate the mirror and also a simpler control program.” Bondarenko leaned forward. “Comrade Minister, as my first report indicated, one of the principal difficulties with Bright Star is the computer system. Even if we were able to manufacture a mirror like this one, we do not as yet have the computer hardware and software to operate it at maximum efficiency. I believe we could do so if we had this new mirror.”
“But we don’t have the new mirror plans yet?” Yazov asked.
“Correct. The KGB is working on that.”
“We can’t even replicate these ‘actuators’ yet,” Filitov groused. “We’ve had the specifications and diagrams for several months and still no factory manager has delivered—”
“Time and funds, Comrade Colonel,” Bondarenko chided. Already he was learning to speak with confidence in this rarest of atmospheres.
“Funding,” Yazov grunted. “Always funding. We can build an invulnerable tank—with enough funds. We can catch up with Western submarine technology—with enough funding. Every pet project of every academician in the Union will deliver the ultimate weapon—if only we can provide enough funding. Unfortunately there is not enough for all of them.” There’s one way in which we’ve caught up with the West!
“Comrade Minister,” Bondarenko said, “I have been a professional soldier for twenty years. I have served on battalion and divisional staffs, and I have seen close combat. Always I have served the Red Army, only the Red Army. Bright Star belongs to another service branch. Despite this, I tell you that if necessary we should deny funds for tanks, and ships, and airplanes in order to bring Bright Star to completion. We have enough conventional weapons to stop any NATO attack, but we have nothing to stop Western missiles from laying waste to our country.” He drew back. “Please forgive me for stating my opinion so forcefully.”