Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  These French idiots have opened a hornet’s nest and now they’re clutching at straws, Witz thought bitterly. The Combined Forces were stripping away French and German military capabilities one at a time. Round-the-clock air raids and cruise missile attacks had sunk most of the Confederation’s naval units. Those few ships and submarines still afloat were being bottled up in port by enemy minefields. Now the Americans and British were going after French nuclear forces. And once they were finished with that, he knew only too well whose air bases would be next on the target list.

  CHAPTER 27

  Annunciation

  JUNE 26 — MOSCOW

  Diplomats stationed in Russia’s capital city, especially those from the world’s wealthier nations, had a range of perks and special privileges beyond the common Muscovite’s wildest dreams. Those perks included unrestricted access to fresh produce and other foodstuffs. While average citizens made do with ration coupons that allowed them meat and other luxuries only two or three times a month, a foreigner with rubles in his pocket could still buy whatever he could pay for. That was one of the few concessions the military-controlled bureaucracy was willing to make to the free market.

  So the three-man FIS surveillance team stationed outside the U.S. Embassy wasn’t especially surprised when a delivery van from the Kuskovo Commercial Food Collective pulled up to the enclave just before first light. After all, everybody knew how particular the Americans were — especially when it came to their precious stomachs.

  “Whew! Take a look at that!” Pavel Voronzov, the youngest and least experienced of the three, had their tripod-mounted binoculars focused on the van as it drove around the big, red brick chancery building and parked near a side door.

  “Take a look at what, Pasha?” A second team member pushed back the earphones he was wearing and looked up from a bank of reel-to-reel recorders. So far this morning their directional microphones hadn’t picked up anything worth listening to. Just the usual obscenity-sprinkled complaints from the Russian militiamen on duty outside the compound and incomprehensible sports chatter from the U.S. Marines guarding the main gate.

  “Fresh sausages! Crates of vegetables.” The young man could feel his mouth watering as he watched workers in coveralls unloading the van. “My God, they’ve even got two sides of beef. And a box of oranges!”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, shut up! And look at something else!” the senior watch officer snapped in irritation. “We’re hunting for spies, not greengrocers!” Not even the special ration coupons issued to state officials under martial law stretched far enough — not this close to the end of the month. His dinner the night before had consisted of weak tea, stale bread, a very thin pat of butter, and some suspiciously spotted cabbage. The older FIS man turned back to the reports he was filling out, determined to ignore the growling noises coming from his stomach.

  Properly chastened, Voronzov swung his binoculars back to the chancery. Only a few lights were on, all on the floor where the Americans maintained a round-the-clock duty station and communications watch. Whoever was awake over there was probably as bored as he was, he decided. But they probably had food right at hand. Chocolate bars, perhaps. Or maybe even a Big Mac. He sighed.

  Without really meaning to, he found his gaze drawn back to the delivery van. No, it was no good. The Kuskovo Collective’s workers had finished unloading and were leaving. Lucky bastards. They probably got to squirrel away a few delicious odds and ends from every shipment. He looked away, losing interest. The edible objects of his desire were inside the embassy’s kitchens, not inside an empty truck.

  It never occurred to him that the van might not be empty — that other items and even people might have been slipped in while the food was being taken out.

  The van from the Kuskovo Commercial Food Collective, a wholly owned subsidiary of the New Kiev Trading Company and the CIA, turned left out the main gate and accelerated.

  Swaying with the van’s movement, Erin McKenna finished unzipping her workman’s coveralls and shrugged them off. The baggy cloth cap hiding her auburn hair came off next. Underneath the rough disguise she wore a plain, dark blue sweatshirt, shorts, and running shoes. Nothing fancy. Nothing eye-catching.

  She glanced up and saw Alex Banich watching her with a carefully blank face. She knew that he still didn’t approve of this rendezvous with Colonel Soloviev — that he thought it was too risky. In the end it had taken a direct order from Len Kutner, backed by Langley itself, to break down his resistance. And even then he’d insisted on taking every precaution he could think of.

  Like the wire she was wearing under her clothes.

  Whenever Erin shifted positions she could feel the tiny microphone taped just below her throat. She could also feel the hair-thin connecting cable running down between her breasts to a miniaturized battery pack, microrecorder, and transmitter taped to the small of her back. Since the system was fully self-contained, she shouldn’t have to fiddle with it while running. “Just don’t sweat,” Banich had said with a faint grin. Faint or not, that was the first time he had smiled since the Russian colonel made his covert approach.

  Wearing the wire was a calculated risk. If Soloviev’s request was a trap, the fact that she was wired for sound could be used as evidence that she was an espionage agent. On the other hand, wearing it would let Banich and Mike Hennessy listen in on the meeting from start to finish. If anything went wrong, that might give them enough of a head start to pluck her out of trouble. Maybe.

  “You know what to do if you see something odd or if you start getting a bad feeling about the way the conversation’s heading?” Banich asked.

  Erin nodded silently. She’d spent several hours the night before memorizing a short list of innocuous-sounding emergency phrases that would trigger action by Banich and Hennessy. At his insistence, she’d even read a brief rundown on escape-and-evasion techniques. She had also learned the location of one of the CIA’s Moscow safe houses.

  “Remember to let Soloviev do most of the talking. Stick to generalities wherever you can. Got it?”

  She nodded again, half-angry at being treated like a small child or hapless nitwit and half-amused by the evidence of the depth of Banich’s concern for her safety. He knew that she had the contact procedures down cold, but he couldn’t stop himself from going over them one last time. For someone other embassy staffers called the Ice Man, Alex Banich had a bad case of the jitters.

  If she called him on it, he’d only claim he was worried that she might blow their cover here in Russia. She knew better. Shared work, shared meals, and a growing appreciation of each other’s intelligence and sense of humor had brought them closer and closer together — whether or not they were willing to admit it yet. The van slowed and came to a stop. “We’re here, Alex. The Novodevichy Convent’s just up ahead, on the right,” Hennessy announced from the driver’s seat, his voice muffled by the partition.

  “No signs of a tail?” Banich asked.

  “Nope. And Alcott and Teppler say we’re clean, too.” The second pair of CIA operatives were in a chase car that had followed them at a distance, hoping to spot anyone else tracking the delivery van.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Erin asked.

  “Possibly.” Banich looked unconvinced. “But maybe the FIS isn’t tailing us because they’re here already, waiting.”

  He sighed. “This is your last chance to back out, McKenna. Nobody could blame you for not wanting to stick your head into a buzz saw.”

  “No.” Erin shook her head fiercely, fighting the doubts and fears that were starting to creep in. What if the Russians were out there waiting for her? Images of arrest, torture, and imprisonment flashed through her mind. She could feel her heartbeat starting to speed up.

  “All right,” Banich said flatly. He swung away from her and opened the blinds covering one of the van’s rear windows just long enough for a quick look outside. “It’s still clear. So let’s do it.”

  Moving fast now, he popped the doors open,
dropped lightly onto the street, and turned to help her down. Erin suspected the sudden burst of speed came because he wanted to hurry things along before he changed his own mind about letting her do this.

  The CIA agent checked his watch. “It’s five fifty-eight. Remember, if Soloviev doesn’t show by five after, come right back here. No hanging around. Clear?”

  She didn’t answer him. Instead, acting on a long-restrained impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him. Then she turned and loped away, running toward the convent.

  Alex Banich stood watching her leave with a stunned expression on his face.

  The Novodevichy Convent, the New Convent of the Virgin, loomed ahead of her — a massive, imposing complex surrounded by a crenelated wall and twelve towers. Buildings, some topped by golden Russian Orthodox domes and crosses, lofted above the walls. “Whatever you do, don’t go inside the convent,” Banich had told her. “We’d lose contact right away.”

  Now Erin could see why he’d been so insistent. Radio signals from her wire wouldn’t stand a chance of penetrating walls built to withstand cannon shot and siege engines. The exterior of the convent, which was founded in 1524, looked more like a fortress or prison than a place of worship. Some of the tsars had used it as a kind of gilded prison, she knew, a cage to hold noblewomen they considered too dangerous or too influential. She only hoped that wasn’t a bad omen for her.

  Water sparkled close by, lit by the sun rising behind her. After looping around a collection of stadiums, arenas, and swimming pools originally expanded for the 1980 Summer Olympics, the Moscow River flowed north past the convent grounds.

  Erin found Valentin Soloviev standing near the main entrance — an arched passageway flanked by thick columns. Dressed in running shorts and a sweatshirt himself, the Russian colonel looked subtly different than he had in uniform, less rigid and slightly less imposing. He seemed to be watching a pair of bearded, somewhat bedraggled artists at work. Or were they plainclothes security men only pretending to be artists? Her steps faltered in sudden doubt.

  She knew that the Novodevichy was a favorite subject and gathering place for Moscow’s street painters, but the gates were still shut this early in the morning. She slowed to a walk and drew closer. From what she could see of their easels, the two men were working on twin watercolors of the convent at sunrise. Their brushes moved in swift, sure strokes, laying down pale colors across white emptiness.

  Erin felt a surge of relief as her first fears faded. Either the FIS had agents who were also gifted artists, or these guys were exactly what they appeared to be — starving students trying to squeeze out a few extra rubles by painting one of Moscow’s most famous landmarks.

  Soloviev heard her footsteps and looked round. He smiled, but she noticed the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. They were still wary. When he spoke, he spoke in Russian. “You made it! I’m glad.”

  She answered in the same language, consciously trying to damp down her American accent. “You sound surprised. Why?”

  The colonel shrugged. “I thought you might be busy. I’m sure you have a great deal of work to do these days.” He glanced toward the two artists and nodded toward the street behind her. “Shall we run, then?”

  She noticed he was being careful not to use any names. “Certainly. If you think you can keep up with me, that is.”

  Soloviev smiled again, for real this time. He led the way out of the arched passage and turned right, heading toward the river. She matched his stride easily.

  They ran in silence for a few minutes before swinging onto; a street that paralleled the river. The pale brown towers of the Ukraina Hotel rose in the distance. There were very few cars or trucks on the road. Gasoline rationing and restrictions on private use saw to that.

  At last Erin couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer. “Well, Colonel? You’re calling the shots here. Why did you want to see me?”

  Soloviev turned his head toward her and she could see amusement dancing in his gray eyes. He arched an eyebrow. “Do I need a reason, Miss McKenna? Beyond the simple desire for your company?”

  “Yes, you do.” Erin knew that many men considered her attractive, but she couldn’t see a man like Soloviev risking his career for lust, or even for love. Besides, she suspected the handsome, aristocratic colonel didn’t have any trouble finding suitably beautiful Russian women to meet his needs — women who were considerably safer to pursue.

  “Fair enough.” He nodded and his face grew more serious. “Very well, I have such a reason.”

  She waited for him to go on, running steadily by his side.

  Finally Soloviev seemed to come to a decision. Still running, he changed direction, turning into a small park below the convent’s western wall. A gravel path wound around two fishponds and a fragrant garden. He stopped beside a park bench and pivoted to face her squarely. “I know you have shown great trust in coming here this morning, Miss McKenna. After all, I could easily be some kind of agent provocateur, correct?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” Erin admitted.

  “That is understandable.” The Russian officer shrugged. “Some of my countrymen have a deserved reputation for such trickery. I do not.”

  He looked closely at her. “But you must also understand how dangerous this is for me. If one word of what I tell you reaches the wrong ears… whiitt.”

  He pulled one hand across his throat in a fast, slashing motion. His eyes were suddenly bleak. “This is not melodrama. I know that such things happen. I know it all too well.”

  Erin felt her brain kick into overdrive. Smells, sights, and sounds were all magnified as her senses came fully alive. It was a familiar sensation — one she always felt whenever the critical clue to a particularly complicated puzzle came within her grasp. Oh, her fears were still there, she realized. Everything Soloviev was saying might still be window dressing, part of a plan orchestrated by Russian counterintelligence to entrap her. But her instincts said that was less and less likely.

  She spread her hands. “I can only promise to do my best, Colonel.”

  Some of the bleakness faded. “I can only accept that.” He sat down on the bench, facing the river.

  Erin did the same thing, noticing the faint white blob that was Banich’s delivery van parked several blocks down the street. She hoped the wire was still working.

  “The French want us to intervene against Poland,” Soloviev said abruptly. “They’ve sent a high-ranking delegation to negotiate directly with Marshal Kaminov and the rest of our Military Council.”

  Erin shivered suddenly. Despite the sunlight, the day felt colder. Russian involvement in the war had been one of Washington’s nightmare scenarios from day one. Neither the United States or Great Britain could possibly ship troops into Poland fast enough to fend off the Franco-German attack from the west and a Russian avalanche from the east. She took a deep breath and asked, “Have Kaminov and the others agreed to this proposal?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. They want more than the French are offering to pay.” He sounded contemptuous of their mercenary motives.

  “And what are the French offering?”

  “Financial aid and technology transfers worth several billions of your dollars,” Soloviev told her.

  “But that’s not enough?”

  He shrugged. “No.” He hunched his shoulders and explained. “Kaminov knows that the longer he waits, the more important our aid becomes to Paris. In any event, it will take several days to move the additional forces we would need through Belarus and into position on the Polish border.”

  Erin nodded. “So what does he want?”

  “More money. More access to advanced military technologies. Co-equal status with France and Germany as a member of the Confederation.” The Russian colonel saved the worst news for last, “And a free hand against Ukraine, the Baltic States, Kazakhstan, and the other republics.”

  His mouth tightened to a grim line as he spoke. “Many men of high rank in my country have never acce
pted the dismemberment of the old Soviet state, Miss McKenna. They long for the old days of empire.” His gaze turned inward., “No matter what price others must pay for their glory and their power. And the people would follow them. My countrymen are tired of hunger and tired of insignificance. They long for prosperity and our place on the world stage.”

  Erin sat numbed. The specter of a Europe held captive by France and Germany was awful enough. The prospect of that plus a reunited and aggressive Russian empire was even worse.

  She twisted her ponytail around and around her fingers, thinking hard. Something Soloviev had said, or rather had not said, seemed significant. “You keep mentioning the French. What about the Germans? Are they part of this?”

  The colonel shook his head. “I don’t believe so. All the negotiators I’ve seen are Frenchmen and all the meetings are being held under the strictest security — at a dacha outside the city.” He smiled thinly. “I doubt the Germans have the faintest idea of what their ‘allies’ are up to.”

  Interesting. That also made sense. The Germans were unlikely to welcome the notion of a resurgent Russia. But the French willingness to cut their supposed partner out of such an important effort spoke volumes about French arrogance or French desperation. Maybe a little bit of both, she decided.

  A truck rumbled by on the street, calling Erin out of her reverie. Time was passing and Moscow was waking up. They’d have to go their separate ways soon or become uncomfortably noticeable. Few Russians had the leisure time to sit companionably on park benches during the workweek. “Do you have any proof of all of this?”

  Soloviev frowned. “No, Miss McKenna, I do not. As I said, these negotiations have been closely guarded and very discreet.”

  She frowned back. Without concrete evidence to back up its claims, the United States could not go public with its knowledge of these secret Franco-Russian talks. Both countries would simply indignantly deny the story, Soloviev would disappear into a shallow grave or reopened gulag, and the talks would proceed on schedule. She looked up from her fingers. “Can you get proof?”