Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  How much longer today would these idiots babble on? he wondered. This negotiating session had already run well over its allotted time without any apparent progress. Both Desaix’s handpicked representative, Ambassador Sauret, and Kaminov seemed perfectly willing to talk each other to death before coming to any agreement.

  Duroc grimaced. He could understand that in the Russian. Kaminov, for all his rank and power, was still a peasant at heart. You could find his kind in any rural French village — the surly, suspicious old man who couldn’t buy a horse without counting its teeth and poking and prodding the poor beast to distraction, complaining all the while about the seller’s obvious villainy. But Sauret was supposed to be an educated gentleman, the product of Europe’s most sophisticated society. His participation in this haggling seemed both ignoble and foolish.

  If France truly needed Russia’s assistance to win this war, then why not promise Kaminov and his followers anything they wanted? To Duroc, promises, especially those made by diplomats, were made to be broken — or at the very least carefully ignored. Besides, what difference did a few billion francs really make? If the Confederation won, the extra money could always be squeezed out of its smaller members or the defeated Poles, Czechs, and Hungarians. If the Confederation lost, Russia wouldn’t be in any position to press its financial demands anyway.

  Weary of watching the negotiators fumble with their papers or sip their water, the major found his gaze wondering over the Russian soldiers and civilians lining the opposite wall — his counterparts in boredom. Most wore the same practiced look of long-suffering patience and forced interest, an expression common to subordinates of all kinds in boardrooms, government ministries, and military posts around the world. But there was one exception. One officer, a tall, handsome, fair-haired colonel, seemed uneasy. While Duroc discreetly inspected him, the Russian glanced down at his watch and looked up in evident dismay. He did it again just thirty seconds later. And again a few seconds after that. Interesting.

  Duroc mentally sorted through the intelligence files he’d studied before coming to Moscow, trying to put a name to the aristocratic face in front of him. If nothing else, the effort was a useful exercise — a way to stave off the meeting’s tedium for a few moments. Memory and vision merged successfully in short order. The Russian was one Colonel Valentin Alexievich Soloviev, one of Marshal Kaminov’s top military aides.

  Key sections of the file on Soloviev came bubbling to the surface along with his name. A decorated veteran of the Afghan War with a reputation for daring and tactical skill. In politics, a hard-liner, firmly wedded to Kaminov’s policies and person. The colonel was also reported to be one of the prime movers behind the Russian Army’s ongoing purge of officers with democratic connections or suspect “ethnic” ties. Overall, the analysis prepared by the DGSE’s Moscow Section presented the picture of a cool, calm, resourceful officer.

  The Frenchman pursed his lips, increasingly interested in what he was seeing. If the reports he’d read were accurate, the nervous tension so readily apparent in this Colonel Soloviev was almost wholly out of character. And in his experience, men did not break long-established patterns of thought and action without good reason. So why was this ice-cold Russian soldier so jumpy?

  During a brief pause while the French translators struggled to catch up with one of Kaminov’s long-winded pronouncements, Soloviev leaned forward to whisper something in the marshal’s ear. Without really listening, the older, stockier man nodded impatiently, flicking his hand toward the exit.

  Clearly relieved, the colonel straightened up and headed for the conference room door. Several of his fellows looked surprised to see him leaving.

  Intensely curious now, Duroc made his own muttered excuses and left the room close on Soloviev’s heels. The Russian colonel was moving faster, hastening down the hall toward the dacha’s main entrance. That erased the last, faint trace of doubt from the French security agent’s mind. The other man wasn’t simply seeking a washroom. He was leaving the compound — unexpectedly and in a tearing hurry.

  Why? What did Soloviev consider more important than these negotiations? And important enough to risk angering his notoriously short-tempered superior? Duroc frowned. Whatever was going on, he wanted to know more about it. He’d had enough surprises in Hungary and they’d almost wrecked his career.

  He stepped out onto the mansion’s enclosed front porch in time to see the Russian sliding behind the steering wheel of a staff car, a black Volga. Plainly, wherever the man was headed, he was headed alone.

  Not so fast, Colonel, Duroc thought coldly. He clattered down the front steps and strode toward a group of men standing idle around their own vehicles, smoking cigarettes and chatting softly while waiting for their masters to emerge.

  Against Duroc’s advice, the French special ambassador and his staff always traveled out to the conference site from the embassy in several armored limousines flanked by chase cars manned by members of his security team. Although the practice had seemed unnecessarily showy and indiscreet to the DGSE officer, at least it gave him manpower on the scene now.

  “Foret! Verdier!” He motioned the two closest agents over. Both were experienced, veterans of several covert operations.

  Obviously surprised to see him, they hurriedly stubbed out their cigarettes. “Yes, Major?”

  Duroc nodded toward the black Volga slowly backing out of its parking place. “I want you to follow the Russian officer in that car. Carefully, so that he doesn’t know you’re there. I don’t want him spooked. Find out where he goes, and who, if anybody, he meets. You have a camera?”

  Foret, a tiny, rat-faced man, nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then get pictures if you can.”

  Verdier, bigger and better-looking than Foret, jerked his head toward the woods and the access road. “What do we tell the soldiers at that checkpoint when they ask us why we’re leaving early?”

  Duroc shrugged. “Tell them the ambassador wants to make sure his steward has the right wines ready for dinner tonight. You shouldn’t have any trouble making them believe that.”

  Both men smiled and nodded. Ambassador Sauret’s devotion to his stomach and his fussiness were already a source of secret amusement for his underlings and their Russian counterparts.

  “Any more questions?” Duroc asked. “No? Then get going.” Soloviev’s car was already halfway down the drive to the woods.

  While Foret and Verdier hustled to obey, he turned back to the dacha, pondering his next move. If nothing else, tailing this fellow Soloviev would help keep his own men on their toes. But he felt sure his orders would achieve far more than that.

  To the major, the intelligence game was only a variation on the age-old hunt — a quest for facts in the midst of uncertainty, instead of food in the midst of the wilderness. He knew that no man’s conscious mind could possibly pick up more than a fraction of the sensory and other cues flooding in from all sides. The rest had to be processed by the subconscious — emerging as sudden flashes of insight and inspiration. Although his decision to put the Russian colonel under surveillance had been largely instinctive, Paul Duroc had long ago learned to trust his instincts.

  ARBAT STREET, MOSCOW

  During the early part of the twentieth century, Arbat Street was one of Moscow’s most fashionable shopping districts. Under communist rule, it had fallen on hard times as a symbol of “capitalist exploitation.” Now, as the twentieth century came to a close, the area had come full circle. Private renovations, foreign investment, and government preservation orders had spruced the Arbat up, creating a cobblestone-paved pedestrian district crowded with gift shops, art galleries, and theaters.

  Even under the harsh austerity program imposed by Kaminov’s martial law government, the Arbat still had life and color. As the capital city’s ministries and businesses closed for the day, shoppers and theatergoers swarmed into the area seeking bargains and entertainment. Many were in uniform — officers serving on headquarters duty in th
e vast concrete bulk of Russia’s Ministry of Defense right down the street.

  Erin McKenna moved with the throngs, pretending to window-shop while she kept her eyes peeled for Valentin Soloviev. She was growing edgy, conscious of the time flashing past. The Russian officer was late, and if he didn’t show up in the next couple of minutes, she would have to abort this rendezvous. Where the hell was he? Simply caught in traffic? Or under arrest for treason? Uncertainty gnawed at her, only partially allayed by the knowledge that Alex Banich was somewhere reasonably close by, keeping watch over her.

  She moved to the next window, simulating an interest in a display of beautifully carved chessmen. Other pedestrians brushed past without a second glance, intent on their own errands or pleasure. How odd, Erin thought, to feel so alone surrounded by so many other people. Alex had been right when he said that crowds conferred their own special measure of anonymity.

  A familiar reflection appeared over her shoulder, this time in full uniform. Her gaze flickered toward the man standing at her side and then back to the chess pieces. “Nice of you to show up, Colonel.”

  “My apologies, Miss McKenna.” Soloviev sounded just the slightest bit out of breath. He explained, “The conference dragged on longer than I had anticipated. As it was, I had to leave before the session ended.”

  “Was that wise?”

  He shrugged uncertainly. “Perhaps not. But I had no time to contact you to arrange a new meeting.”

  Erin nodded her understanding. If Soloviev had missed this rendezvous, she doubted that Banich and Len Kutner would ever have allowed her to schedule another. The risk that the Russian had been caught and turned would have would have been too high for them to accept. When you were engaged in espionage in a hostile capital, paranoia was a survival trait.

  They moved down the Arbat to stand in front of another shop, close enough to speak softly and fairly privately but far enough apart to seem separate — two chance passersby animated only by similar tastes and interests.

  “What’s happening out there?” Erin asked bluntly. They didn’t have time for small talk. Two strangers could companionably converse for a few minutes. Anything longer might draw unwanted attention.

  Soloviev was equally blunt. “Nothing good. Despite their bickering, Kaminov and the Frenchman are very close to reaching an agreement. And our military buildup is well under way. We already have eight divisions massed inside Belarus, with another three en route to the border. Several more are on alert — ready to move once the roads and railroads are clear.” He frowned. “In fact, I think the marshal is only waiting for this latest EurCon attack to bog down before making a firm commitment to intervene. He’s a hard bargainer, that one. He knows the less certain the French are of victory, the more they will pay for our help.”

  Erin nodded again. From what she knew of Kaminov’s character, Soloviev’s assessment made sense. She moved on to the next item on Alex Banich’s list. “And what about the hard evidence we need, Colonel? Do you have anything for me?” She glanced down at the open shopping bag resting on the ground between them. She had brought the bag with her as a cover and also as a means of carrying away any documents the Russian could provide.

  Soloviev shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Colonel, you know how important…”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “My dear Miss McKenna, I am a man of many talents. But I am not a miracle worker.” The Russian officer grimaced. “My countrymen may not be able to build a decent automobile or grow enough food to feed themselves, but they are masters of the art of secrecy.”

  Still frowning, he elaborated. “Every document used in these talks is numbered and can only be signed out by the most senior members of each delegation. Any photocopying required, even something as simple as an agenda or a lunch menu, can only be done under observation by security officers from both countries. Although there may be a way around these precautions, I haven’t found it yet.” He shrugged. “Tell your superiors that I am still trying, Miss McKenna. But remind them that it won’t help any of us if I am caught for the sake of a single scrap of paper.”

  “All right.” Erin heard the strain in his voice and realized the pressure the Russian must be under. If she were arrested, she could at least hope to be exchanged one day. If the FIS captured Soloviev… she shuddered inwardly. In one instance, the old KGB had reportedly fed a “traitor” into a furnace alive. They’d even filmed the execution as an example to other would-be Western “moles.” She turned toward him. “Believe me, Colonel, we appreciate everything you’ve done so far.”

  “Do you?”

  She looked up at him. “Yes, I do.”

  He smiled, showing a brief flash of the devil-may-care attitude she’d found so attractive when they’d first met at the embassy dance. “Then that is enough for me.” His smile turned wistful. “For now, though, I think we must go our separate ways.”

  Erin nodded. They were out of time and in public. “When can I expect your next call?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “That soon?”

  Soloviev nodded grimly. “Events are moving faster, Miss McKenna. By tomorrow or the next day, your country and mine could very easily be at war.”

  Neither spotted the small, rat-faced man just a hundred meters further up Arbat Street, quietly taking pictures of them using a telephoto lens.

  CHAPTER 31

  Gdansk Is the Key

  JUNE 29 — ALPHA COMPANY, 3/187TH INFANTRY, 101ST AIRBORNE DIVISION (AIR ASSAULT), SWIECIE, POLAND

  The improvised convoy carrying the eight hundred men of the “3rd of the 187th” pulled up outside brigade headquarters in the rural town. Captain Mike Reynolds shifted in his cramped seat, glad the trip was finally over. He stood gratefully, gathered his gear, and stepped off the hastily camouflaged school bus.

  They’d left from Gdansk at six that morning, despite the risks of daylight travel. Speed was more urgent than anything else, and headquarters had reassured them that there would be continuous fighter patrols over the convoy. Well, Reynolds hadn’t seen any aircraft from either side, but at least they’d arrived intact. Part of his relief over the end of the journey was his joy at getting out of what his trained eye told him was a conspicuous, barely mobile, and horribly vulnerable four-wheeled target. As an infantryman in a combat zone full of tanks, artillery pieces, and laser-guided munitions, Reynolds was only really comfortable in cover and on his own two feet.

  It had taken them four hours to cover the 125 kilometers between Gdansk and the small town of Swiecie. He was sure many tourists had taken the same trip. Highway 5 paralleled the Vistula River, past historic buildings and hundreds of small farms. It would have been a scenic drive if not for the bedraggled refugees clogging the road. Although Gdansk had shown all the signs of war, the morning’s trip had given Reynolds a real sense of the struggle. Those people on the road had not left their homes because of some abstract threat. Armies were on the move.

  All along the route, bombed-out buildings had provided evidence of EurCon power. Polish demolition teams were also busy. At first, Reynolds had thought the wrecked bridges and cratered roads were more results of EurCon air raids, but then they had driven past a party of engineers actually blowing the bridge over the Vistula at Grudziadz.

  “They don’t have a lot of confidence in us, do they?” he thought, but he remembered Thompson’s speech. The Poles were realists. He and his troops were all too likely to be coming back over this road again, heading in the other direction.

  The relatively short trip also brought home to Reynolds just how close the French and German divisions were to their goal. Even at twenty-mph convoy speeds, he and his troops had covered the distance in a single morning. If the 101st didn’t slow EurCon down, and quickly, Gdansk would fall.

  The closer they got to Swiecie, the fewer civilians they saw, and the more military activity. He was relieved to see a group of AH-64 Apache attack helicopters half-hidden in a copse of woods, and, as they drove
into the town itself, he spotted a battery of Hawk missiles guarding the gunships.

  Swiecie was the forward support base for the 3rd Brigade and its three infantry battalions, and drab green-gray vehicles lined its narrow streets. The Piast Hotel, the only one in town, had been taken over as the brigade’s headquarters. Reynolds guessed that Americans now outnumbered Poles in this village, especially with so many of the original inhabitants in flight.

  As he watched his men debark, all stretching and yawning, a private came up and saluted. “Battalion brief in the hotel, sir, right away.”

  Reynolds acknowledged his salute, gathered up his assembling platoon leaders, and headed for the hotel.

  The Piast was a stone and brick building, shabby enough to be “rustic” but really just spartan and old. The dining room on the main floor was quickly filling with the 3rd Battalion’s officers, all silent as they waited for the final details of their assignment. Tables and chairs had been pushed to one side, while easels in the center held maps and status boards.

  Reynolds spotted his battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Jeff Colby, conferring with the brigade’s civil affairs officer. The S-5’s responsibilities included the civilian evacuation plan, and while their convoy hadn’t been horribly delayed by the refugees streaming north, the main road was supposed to have been kept clear. Reynolds was sure the hapless captain was receiving some pithy, pungent feedback from the colonel.

  Reynolds liked Colby. A flamboyant, energetic commander, he had passed on some of that energy to his battalion — to some extent compensating for Colonel Iverson’s restrained style. Sometimes, though, he seemed too flamboyant, too “hell-for-leather,” to be real. The colonel had the “army look,” a lean frame with a long, tanned face and close-cropped hair, in this case brown. He was also a Desert Storm veteran, though not as a battalion commander.