Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  She came out of the park and turned north onto a stretch of pavement paralleling a wide, multilane avenue. Once known as Lenin Prospekt, the street had long since reverted to its prerevolutionary name — Kaluga Road. It was one of Moscow’s principal thoroughfares and usually one of its busiest. But not today.

  Only a few cars and taxis zoomed down the deserted street, racing over the speed limit along a road normally choked with bumper-to-bumper traffic. That was strange. Maybe the gasoline shortages she’d been reading about in the newspapers were finally starting to pinch the capital. Or maybe the government’s underpaid workers were staging another wildcat strike.

  The deep roar of diesel engines moving up the street behind her ripped those idle speculations to shreds.

  Wheeled armored personnel carriers thundered past at high speed, rumbling northward toward the river, the Kremlin, and the two-level Grand Boulevard that ringed the city center. Soldiers armed with assault rifles rode standing up, scanning the buildings to either side through open roof hatches. Wolf whistles and leers drifted her way as they sped by.

  “Hey, pretty lady! Need a real man?”

  “Nice tits, baby!”

  Erin flushed angrily but she kept running. She had to get back to the embassy and find out what the hell was happening. Whatever it was, the Russian Army was certainly out in force, she thought, counting vehicles as they rumbled past. She stopped counting at thirty.

  The long armored column split up as it entered October Square. Some of the turreted APCs turned left or right along the Grand Boulevard. Others roared straight ahead, advancing toward the Kammenyj Bridge and the Kremlin. Three vehicles bringing up the rear slowed down and wheeled in line to block the Kaluga Road.

  Troops tumbled out of the APCs, urged on by shrill blasts from a high-pitched command whistle. Several took up firing positions near the entrance to the Hotel Warsaw while others trotted across the street. Still more men followed them, uncoiling twisted, razor-sharp strands of concertina wire.

  Despite herself, Erin was impressed. These soldiers were putting together a very solid roadblock very quickly. Unfortunately they were also cutting her off from the nearest Metro station.

  She slowed to a walk. Running headlong into a platoon of overexcited Russian infantrymen didn’t seem like a particularly good idea. Her hand slipped into the travel pack she wore around her waist, reaching for her passport and diplomatic identity card. With luck, they’d see that she wasn’t any threat and simply wave her through.

  “Halt!”

  Damn. She stopped, feeling her heartbeat starting to speed up. More than a dozen pairs of eyes and rifles were pointed in her direction.

  The officer who’d yelled at her marched closer, backed by two of his soldiers. He had a narrow, arrogant face and he didn’t look friendly. Wonderful. She had the sinking feeling that getting past this checkpoint wasn’t going to be easy.

  “You! Show me your papers! And be quick about it.” The officer snapped his fingers at her impatiently, but he seemed far more interested in studying her breasts. The two privates behind him were openly smirking.

  “I’m an American diplomat. You have no authority over me.” Erin spoke carefully, in Russian, holding out the documents he’d demanded. “You see?”

  The soldier snatched them out of her hand. “American, you say?” He stroked his chin with one hand, thumbed through her papers for a second, and then snorted. “But maybe these are forgeries, eh?”

  Her temper flared. “Don’t be ridiculous! Now, cut the bullshit and let me pass!”

  That was a mistake. She’d given this creep a perfect opening.

  The Russian officer smiled lazily. “Perhaps you should learn to show more respect, woman.” He turned to the two privates behind him. “This so-called American could be a dangerous spy. Or a criminal. I think we should search her for concealed contraband. Thoroughly, eh?”

  Both men nodded eagerly. One even licked his lips in anticipation.

  Oh, God. Erin’s hands balled into fists. She glanced to either side, already knowing she had nowhere to run. All the soldiers manning the checkpoint had stopped to watch.

  “Let’s go, bitch! We’ll see just what you’re carrying under that tight sweater of yours.” The officer spun on his heel, striding toward the nearest personnel carrier. He didn’t even bother to look back to see if she was following.

  “Captain!” The sudden shout came from down the street, on the other side of the roadblock.

  Erin could see a big black car pulling up to the barrier. It was a Lincoln Continental with diplomatic license plates. Her hands started trembling, this time in relief and not in fear. The cavalry had arrived. For the first time, she appreciated Banich’s earlier irritating insistence that she leave a detailed description of the route she planned to take whenever she signed out of the embassy compound. Her eyes narrowed in speculation. He had been standing by to pull her out of trouble. That could only mean that he and Kutner had had some advance warning of what was in the wind.

  Erin frowned, still not sure whether she should! be touched by his readiness to rescue her, or irked that he’d kept her in the dark for so long.

  One of the Lincoln’s rear doors popped open and Alex Banich climbed out, his face tight with anger as he took in the scene in front of him. Without stopping, he pushed through the knot of soldiers standing in his way, flashing his identity card from side to side as though it were some kind of religious talisman. He came to a halt right in front of the Russian captain.

  “You’d better just be escorting Miss McKenna through your lines, Captain.” Banich slid the card into his jacket and put both hands on his hips. “If not, I can promise you one hell of a lot of trouble.”

  “We were simply…”

  “Don’t bother lying to me. I can guess what you were planning.” Banich glared up at the taller man, openly daring him to disagree.

  The army officer scowled but kept his mouth shut. He’d obviously been looking forward to humiliating a lone American woman, not provoking a full-fledged diplomatic incident.

  “Are you okay?”

  Erin nodded, not trusting herself to speak yet. She’d be damned if she’d show these soldiers any more weaknesses than she already had.

  “Good.” Banich reached out and took her papers out of the captain’s unresisting hand. “We’ve got a lot to get done today. As you may have gathered, the government’s declared martial law. So there’s no more time for screwing around with tin-pot, mincing morons like this guy.” He jerked a thumb at the Russian.

  This time it was the captain who turned red with impotent rage. Erin smiled sweetly at him and followed Banich back to the waiting Lincoln. Inside she was busy trying to sort out a world that seemed suddenly turned upside down.

  OCTOBER 23 — THE PLACE OF SKULLS, IN RED SQUARE, MOSCOW

  Before the Bolshevik Revolution, the circular stone platform called the Lobnoye Mesto, the Place of Skulls, had served as a site for public executions. Since the communists had preferred to carry out most of their murders in secret, the platform had fallen into disuse — becoming instead a place where tourists posed for pictures against the scenic backdrop provided by the old GUM department store and St. Basil’s Cathedral. Now, under Marshal Kaminov’s emergency decrees, the Place of Skulls was again a place for swift and sure punishments.

  Several thousand people crowded Red Square, craning their heads for a better look at the raised platform. Excited murmurs swept through the waiting crowd as five blindfolded men were dragged down from a canvas-sided army truck and shoved up the stone steps. Their hands were tied behind their backs, and signs hung around their necks identified them as thieves and black market speculators.

  Soldiers wearing heavy winter overcoats turned the blindfolded men around to face the square and forced them to kneel on the top step. When they were in place, five army officers marched smartly up the stairs and took their posts — one behind each kneeling prisoner.

  “Citizens of Mother
Russia!” a deep, harsh voice blared through the loudspeakers ringing the square. “For years these criminals have stolen bread from your mouths and profited by your miseries! But no more. No more. Now you will see justice done.”

  Scattered clapping greeted this announcement, but most of those watching were silent.

  “These men have been tried, convicted, and sentenced to death by the Special Military Tribunal for Moscow. Their appeals have been considered and rejected by the highest authorities.”

  The people jamming the square stirred in confusion at that. Most of them were unsure of precisely who the “highest authorities” were right now. Although they’d seen the President’s televised speech declaring martial law, almost all public announcements since then had come from men in uniform.

  With the republic’s newspapers, radio programs, and television news shows all operating under restrictive censorship decrees, reliable information was a rare and valuable commodity.

  “Soldiers of the Russian Republic, are you ready to perform your sacred duty to the motherland?” The waiting army officers came to attention and then, one by one, nodded. “Very well. Proceed with the executions.”

  Five pistol shots rang out one after the other, echoing off the massive stone buildings surrounding Red Square. Spilling bright red blood, five corpses slumped forward — tumbling down the steps to the cobblestones below. A soft sigh rippled through the crowd as the last body sprawled at the foot of the Place of Skulls.

  The loudspeakers spoke again. “Thus perish all who would rob and exploit the people of Holy Mother Russia! Return to your homes and factories, fellow countrymen — confident in those who guard and defend you.”

  The spectators dispersed slowly, filtering out of the square under the watchful eyes of a crack infantry battalion and a small cluster of white-haired senior officers — each man a bright spectacle of gold braid, service ribbons, and medals. Wheeled BTR-80 APCs and big-gunned T-80 tanks lined the nearby streets as a steel-sided reminder of military power.

  “A most impressive display, Colonel.” Marshal Yuri Kaminov clapped Soloviev on the shoulder.

  “Thank you, sir.” Soloviev smiled woodenly at Kaminov’s praise. The marshal himself had drawn up the plans for this afternoon’s executions. All he’d had to do was follow them to the last letter.

  “We Russians are a simple people. We understand simple, direct lessons. That is why the people respect power. They appreciate a firm hand.” Kaminov pointed to where the dead men were being piled on stretchers and hauled away. “And that is what we shall give them, correct?”

  Soloviev nodded.

  “Good.” Kaminov motioned to another of his aides — a dark-haired major. The man came forward carrying a thick, stapled sheaf of papers. “Nikolskii has the details for your next assignment.” He lowered his voice. “This is a crucial job, Valentin. Executions like these will help cleanse our society. But we must also purify the armed forces by weeding out the weak and the incompetent. Russia must have a sword and shield she can rely on in these dangerous times.”

  The marshal took the documents from the major and handed them to Soloviev. “This is a preliminary list of junior and senior officers we consider unreliable. I want you to organize a series of roving courts-martial ready for immediate action. Instruct the tribunals that I want these vermin expelled from the service in disgrace.” He scowled. “I want them starving in the streets as object lessons for any others who might forget where their loyalties should lie.”

  The colonel nodded again, more slowly this time. “As you command, sir.”

  Kaminov stared hard at him. “Do not fail me in this matter, Colonel.”

  “No, sir.” Soloviev met his gaze coolly. “I know my duty.”

  “Very good.” The marshal seemed satisfied. “You are dismissed.”

  Soloviev straightened to attention, saluted, and strode toward the staff car waiting to take him back to the Ministry of Defense. He ignored the soldiers already hard at work, washing blood off the Place of Skulls’ gray stone steps.

  Once back in his office, he skimmed rapidly through the single-spaced list of names, ranks, and serial numbers. Most of those on it were officers with a reputation for independent thinking or democratic political beliefs. Some, however, seemed there only because their last names sounded Jewish or Moslem or non-Russian in some vague, almost undefinable, way.

  He picked up his phone, dialed a four-digit number, and waited for his call to go through. “Soloviev here.”

  The colonel listened to the voice on the other end for a few moments, flipping through the list all the while. Finally he nodded. “Yes. It’s begun. As we expected.”

  He replaced the receiver and sat silently for several minutes more before issuing the orders that would set Marshal Kaminov’s purge in motion.

  CHAPTER 7

  Countermeasures

  OCTOBER 25 — ABC NEWS SPECIAL “EUROPE IN CRISIS”

  Viewers tuning in to the network’s late news program were met by a fast-paced introduction blending dramatic footage and subdued off-camera narration.

  The images were familiar but still chilling. Soldiers wearing dark scarlet berets and olive-drab combat fatigues and carrying short, compact assault rifles advanced down both sides of a wide, empty avenue. Two men in each unit watched the rear, eyes wary, while the others scanned the buildings and sidewalks to the front and either side. Frightened-looking civilians caught in their path were stopped, frisked, and then pushed out of the way.

  For a moment it looked like Belfast, San Salvador, or one of the world’s other perpetually war-torn cities and towns. But then the camera view pulled back, revealing the chestnut trees and withered flower gardens lining the Champs-Élysée. The great stone mass of the Arc de Triomphe loomed in the distance.

  “Paris, under martial law.”

  New images flickered across the screen, grainier than the others. Superimposed captions identified the scenes as amateur video footage shot during the past week and smuggled out past German censors. It was easy to see why Berlin didn’t want these pictures aired.

  Armored personnel carriers clattered down a Hamburg street, moving fast toward a makeshift barricade manned by shouting protesters. When the vehicles were within a few meters, small groups of masked men popped into view, hurling Molotov cocktails. Most of their incendiaries fell short, smashing across the pavement in bursts of bright orange fire and oily black smoke. One gasoline-filled bottle hit a Marder’s gun turret and exploded, spewing flame across the welded steel deck without much effect. Flashes stabbed from firing ports as the APCs surged through the smoke and plowed into the barricades. The soldiers inside were shooting back.

  Several rioters were hit at point-blank range and thrown backward like bloodied rag dolls. Others were caught in the ruined barricade and pulped by spinning treads. Panicked screams rang out above the staccato rattle of automatic weapons fire. Engines roaring, the APCs bulled their way through the barrier and kept going, leaving an ugly trail of smashed furniture, crushed automobiles, and dead and wounded demonstrators in their wake.

  “In Germany increasingly violent clashes with left- and right-wing militants have turned many of the country’s largest cities into deadly battlefields.”

  The images from Hamburg vanished, replaced by film clips released by Russian state television showing more public executions in Moscow’s Red Square. “In Russia the army continues to tighten its grip on daily life. Rail transport, air traffic, and most of the nation’s industry are now under complete military control. Other former Soviet Republics, including Kazakhstan and Belarus, have taken similar steps. Wary of the chaos in its closest neighbors, Ukraine has put its self-defense forces on a higher state of alert.”

  A computer-drawn map covered the screen. More than half the European continent glowed red, indicating countries under some form of “temporary” martial law. Other symbols blinked above both Italy and Spain. Though still under civilian rule, both nations had dramatically strengt
hened their border defenses in recent weeks, fearing a wave of political refugees from their northern neighbors.

  As the twentieth century limped to a close, Europe was sliding back, away from the light and into her violent, divided past.

  OCTOBER 27 — CHEQUERS COURT, GREAT BRITAIN

  Chequers, the Prime Minister’s country estate, lay at the foot of the densely wooded Chiltern Hills. Clear crisp sunlight filtered down through tall, gray-barked beech trees, burning away a few stray patches of early morning mist lingering near the ground. Coombe Hill towered a mile to the north, a sharp-edged outline in autumn yellow, red, and brown against a rich blue sky.

  Three men strolled through the quiet grounds and gardens surrounding a centuries-old Tudor manor house. Two were tall and lean. The third was slightly shorter and considerably heavier. All of them wore heavy coats, scarves, and gloves for protection against a brisk north wind.

  Joseph Ross Huntington III took a deep breath, inwardly rejoicing in the morning air’s cold, clean taste. He’d spent too much time lately in small, stuffy meeting rooms or breathing recirculated air in pressurized plane cabins. “It’s good of you to see me on such short notice, sir.”

  “Not at all, Ross.” The Prime Minister shook his head. His bright blue eyes gleamed behind thick lenses. “It’s simple self-interest, really. I’ve always found it a wise policy to cultivate friends in high places. Even when they don’t come swathed in fancy job titles.”

  Huntington grinned at that. Britain’s top politician had a well-earned reputation for charm and calculated candor. Both traits had helped him ride out a tidal wave of bad economic news that would have long since sunk other British governments.

  “Besides, I’ve been looking for the chance to sort a few things out before next month’s conference with your President.” The Prime Minister glanced at the shorter, stouter man walking to his left. “Isn’t that right, Andy?”

  “Definitely, Prime Minister.” Like his leader, Andrew Bryce, the Minister of Defence, had come up through Conservative Party politics the hard way — by merit and not by birth. When he spoke, his voice still bore traces of the broad Yorkshire accent of his youth. “We don’t have time to waste in Foreign Office chitchat and mummery. Not with things going from bad to worse across the bloody Channel.”