Politika pp-1

by Tom Clancy

  It was, rather, a question of style, of tone, that was occupying Pedachenko’s mind right now. Should he deliver his commentary with his usual strident flair, or take a softer, cooler stance? His media consultants had advised the latter, suggesting he avoid anything that might be interpreted as pessimism at a time when viewers were emotionally geared for a celebration, longed to forget their hardships, and were in desperate need of inspiration from their leaders. On the other hand, what better occasion than the eve of the new millennium to stir their emotions? To remind them of the evils of internationalism, and the failure of governmental policies which had been passed down directly from Yeltsin to Starinov? To present himself as the only man to lead the country forward at a critical juncture in history?

  Pedachenko thought about it. He was not someone to let an opportunity go to waste. But a little surface restraint might be a good idea. He would make it clear to his audience that there was room for hope and optimism as they stepped into the twenty-first century… If they followed along the path he was charting out for them.

  “Sixty seconds!” the stage manager announced.

  Pedachenko glanced at his image in the monitor. A handsome man of fifty with brush-cut blond hair, a carefully trimmed mustache above a mouth full of white teeth, and a build conditioned by frequent and rigorous exercise, he viewed his good looks chiefly as a tool, important for whatever competitive advantage they gave him rather than reasons of vanity. He had learned as a boy that a loose and easy smile could gain the indulgence of his parents and teachers, and later in life had found that same charming manner useful in attracting women to his bed, and ingratiating him with people of influence. He knew his acceptance as a media personality owed as much to his telegenic features as his political opinions, and it didn’t bother him at all. What mattered was summoning up popular support any way he could. What mattered was getting what he wanted.

  He motioned to a hot spot on his forehead and a makeup woman scurried from behind the camera, brushed some powder on it, then dashed off the set again.

  The stage manager raised his hand and counted down the seconds to airtime, ticking them off with his fingers. “Four, three, two, one…”

  Pedachenko looked at the camera.

  “Friends and fellow citizens of the Russian land, good evening,” he said. “As we join in preparing for a new century, I believe we would do well to look back a moment and stand in remembrance of history. And as we strive toward a greater future, let us allow ourselves to feel a noble rage at the slackness of authority that has damaged our national will, and caused so many of the problems that we — every one of us — must face. Two centuries ago, in the first Patriotic War, our soldiers fought against Napoleon’s Grand Army and drove them from our capital in defeat. Earlier in our present century, we again mustered our courage, our determination as a people, to defend our soil from German fascists, overcoming them in what came to be known as the Great Patriotic War. Tonight, then, let us all commit to the final Patriotic War. It is a sacred war that will be fought not on the Field of Mars but a moral battleground; a war in which we are threatened not by guns and bombs, but by cultural stagnation and decadence. A war, my dear countrymen, that demands we examine our souls, stand by our cherished traditions, and fight temptation with iron discipline…”

  * * *

  “… war that cannot be won by scampering after American dollars, or standing with our hands out for American bread crumbs like hopeless beggars, or letting our younger generation be corrupted by American fashion and music,” Pedachenko was saying, his voice earnest and persuasive. “I do not deny that things are bad, but we must take responsibility for ourselves…”

  Watching him on the television screen in his office, Starinov had to give him credit. Grinding away at the same old themes, yet finding sensitive points in the national psyche that no one else in recent times had struck as effectively. His use of the phrases “sacred war” and “noble rage,” both allusions to the most famous military anthem of World War Two, was nothing less than brilliant. And repackaging his familiar political agenda as a new Patriotic War was an inspired, even sublime manipulation of simmering passions, evoking Russian pride at its deepest roots, likening his country’s current problems to the hardships of the past, and placing the struggle to overcome them within the same context as legendary battles against foreign invaders… battles won, in each instance, only after the motherland fell back on its own resources, and its citizens and soldiers mobilized in an explosive uprising of solidarity.

  Starinov inhaled, exhaled. He would never forget the May Day celebration of 1985, the fortieth anniversary of the victory against the Nazis — huge crowds gathered for the memorial ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Alexander Park, the thunderous procession of soldiers and tanks and marching bands, the fireworks splashed across the sky over Red Square, the inspirational songs and waving Soviet banners, the groups of aged World War Two veterans passing in military lockstep, straight and dignified and somehow glorious despite their frailty…

  Starinov had stood with General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev and other high-ranking Party officials that day on a balcony of the Lenin Museum, observing the endless parade, his eyes swelling with tears of pride, convinced that in spite of the failings of Communism, in spite of its social and economic problems, the Soviet Union would stand strong and vital and unified as it advanced toward the future.

  He understood the appeal of Pedachenko’s fervent rhetoric all too well, was even moved by it at a heartfelt level he could not control, which was what made it so acutely dangerous. Now, at the cusp of the new millennium, he feared he was witnessing a Nationalistic revival that would irretrievably set his country toward isolationism and conflict with the West… and that was why his nights had become such restless ordeals, his brief intervals of sleep enmeshed in spidery nightmares from which he would awaken in a cold sweat, his mouth filled with the taste of dust and ashes.

  On the television, Pedachenko had wrapped up his commentary at last. He folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward, smiling, his piercing blue eyes seeming to look directly at the viewer. “Now, friends, I invite you to phone the studio with your questions…”

  “No thank you, friend,” Starinov said. He thumbed the off button on his remote control and Pedachenko abruptly blinked into the void, his intrusive presence rejected — but that wasn’t quite true, now was it?

  Unfortunately, Starinov thought, things were never that easy. For outside the walls of his office, from one end of the Federation to the next, Pedachenko was everywhere.

  “You’re on the air.”

  “Good evening, Minister Pedachenko. I would like your opinion of Minister Bashkir’s recent visit to China and his pledges of increased cooperation between our countries.”

  “Thank you, caller. I think we must look at the minister’s intentions and specific agreements with China separately. In light of NATO enlargement and other recent efforts by the United States to monopolize world affairs, I would agree with him that we share many common interests with our Asian neighbor. American power is a menace that must be shackled, and to do it we have no choice but to turn eastward. But I believe Minister Bashkir was in foolish dereliction of duty when he announced plans to import Chinese technology and military products. Our own munitions plants, the best in the world, are suffering from decreased production orders. Furthermore, China has always been one of their largest customers. Why, then, should we reverse the arrangement now? It seems idiotic and misguided…”

  In his dacha northeast of Moscow, Leonid Todshivalin had been dozing off to the sound of the television when the crash of breaking glass startled him into full awareness. He jerked around in his reclining chair and saw that one of the back windows had been shattered. Cold wind swept into the living room through the jagged remnants of the pane. Spears of glass were sprayed across the rug beneath the sill. In a corner of the floor, he noticed a large rock lying amid the shards. A folded piece of paper had been b
ound to it with a rubber band.

  Pulling his bathrobe closed around him, Todshivalin sprang off the chair and hurried over to the window. He knelt to pick up the stone, careful not to step in the glass, cocking an eye out the window at his snow-covered yard. He didn’t see anybody. But he thought he knew why the rock had been thrown.

  He pulled off the rubber band and unfolded the slip of paper. Written on it in a large hand were two words:

  BLOODSUCKING ASSHOLE

  He felt a flash of anger. For two months his railroad had been relaying American grain deliveries bound from central warehouses in Moscow to the nearby western provinces. The amount shipped to each region was calculated according to population, and if not for his skimming off a portion of the reserves, his town’s allotment would have been negligible. He had assumed the risk. Why then did he not deserve to make a small profit by adding a surcharge to the grain he distributed?

  “Ingrates!” he shouted, lobbing the rock back out at his unseen harassers. “You’ve had too much to drink! Go away!”

  There was no answer. He rose, cursing under his breath, thinking he had better clean up the mess. Somebody would pay for this. All he had wanted was to spend New Year’s Eve relaxing in peace and quiet. Somebody would pay.

  Todshivalin was starting toward the closet to get his broom when he heard a loud bang at the door. He halted suddenly, then turned and looked out across the backyard again. There were several sets of overlapping footprints in the snow. Had they been there before? He wasn’t sure, and he supposed it really wasn’t important. What mattered was that they swung around to the front of the house.

  There was another bang on the door. Another. He shot his gaze at it, saw the hinges quivering.

  “Get out of here!” he shouted. “Get out before I call the polizei!”

  The door thudded and shook. Its bolt lock racketed in its socket. A spear of wood splintered off the jamb.

  Todshivalin heard the dry rasp of his own breath. Beads of sweat had formed on his nose and forehead. He felt the hair on his scalp bristle at the nubs.

  More drumming crashes at the door.

  He stood in the entry hall for several breathless seconds and then decided to get his rifle from his bedroom closet. He had to do it fast, before the door buckled.

  He lunged toward the bedroom and reached the entrance just as the door burst open, shaves of wood flying from its frame. His eyes cut back to the front of the house. Three men in stocking masks came surging in. Two were holding metal pipes. The third had a jerry can in his hand.

  “You’re all out of your minds!” Todshivalin screamed. “You can’t do this! You—”

  One of the men thrust himself at Todshivalin and swung a pipe across his middle. He collapsed like a ruptured accordion, the air whooshing out of his lungs. Now both of the men with pipes were standing over him, pounding him with blows. He raised his hands to protect his face and one of the pipes smashed his fingers. He grunted in pain and curled up on his side, whimpering, tucking his hands between his thighs.

  The men continued beating him relentlessly, their pipes slamming his neck and face. They hit him in the mouth, knocking his front teeth down his throat. Blood gushed from his nose and an open gash on his cheek.

  Tears spurting from his eyes, he saw the third man tilt the jerry can forward. Something poured from its spout and the room filled with the stink of gasoline. The man moved quickly around the room with the can, dousing the curtains and furniture. Then he came over to where Todshivalin was lying and splashed some gasoline on his bathrobe “Please, don’t,” he moaned weakly. His head spun and his mouth was swamped with blood. “I can… give… you… money… food…”

  “Shut up!”

  A pipe slammed Todshivalin just below the jawline and he emitted a high, choked whimper. Then the men stepped back from him. He caught a blurred glimpse of one of them pulling a lighter and a hank of cloth from his pocket, holding the lighter to the cloth, setting the cloth on fire.

  “Shliúkha,” the man said through his mask.

  And tossed the fiery swatch of cloth onto Todshivalin’s gasoline-soaked robe.

  He shrieked and writhed on the floor, flames leaping up his back, flashing hungrily as they enveloped his body.

  Todshivalin heard footsteps pounding away from him, and then he was alone in the house, fire roaring in his ears, black smoke churning around the room. He was burning, burning! He heard a voice, started to cry out for help, but then realized it was only the television, Pedachenko still droning away in the background as the fire ate him alive. He tried to pull himself to his knees, rose about an inch off the floor, then sank back down under a ragged fringe of flame, his flesh searing with agony, thinking that they’d killed him, the bastards, the bastards, they’d—

  “You’re on the air.”

  “What I would like to ask, Minister Pedachenko, is your opinion of why the American grain has been so slow in becoming available. Some towns in the east have received a single truckload for hundreds of families to share. And where I live outside of Stary Oskol, we have seen none of it.”

  “A good question, my friend. As you know, there are members of our government who insist that political squabbles in the United States have been responsible for the irregular deliveries. But we might at least consider another explanation. Could it be the Americans have engaged in economic sabotage by deliberately having assistance reach us at a trickle? That their goal is to dominate us through long-term dependency? Sooner or later we must ask ourselves…”

  Vince Scull glanced at the clock on the wall above him, and turned off the television. Enough was enough. He’d had about all he could take of Pedachenko’s contrived outrage for one night. Even in Russia, a man was entitled to enjoy himself on New Year’s Eve. Or at least keep the unwanted shit outside where it belonged.

  He looked at the bland round face of the clock again. It was eight P.M. Meaning it was not yet noon in California, where his wife Anna — no, strike that — where his ex-wife Anna and their two daughters would be getting ready to celebrate the big event. If his memory was accurate, they were all going to Anna’s mom’s place in Mill Valley. He wondered if he should phone the kids there; probably they would be staying up till midnight to ring in the new year, century, millennium, and maybe another cosmic turning point or two Scull wasn’t aware of.

  Midnight in California, he thought. That was, what, seven A.M. tomorrow his own time? Which would make it three A.M. in New York, where Scull’s mother still lived, eighty-two years old and going strong. He guessed she’d be celebrating in her own fashion, watching the ball descend from the roof of One Times Square on television, a glass of wine on one side of her armchair, and a tray of cocktail weenies on the other.

  Scull rose to get his coat. His private quarters here at the Kaliningrad installation — three rooms in a modular living and recreational building that housed over a hundred people — were boxy and claustrophobic, like something that had been made with a giant Erector set. He needed, really needed, some fresh air.

  Zipping into his parka, Scull went to the door, hesitated with his hand on the knob, then turned back inside and entered the kitchenette. He stepped on the foot pedal that opened his tiny refrigerator, knelt in front of it, and eyed the bottle of Cristal on the upper shelf. He’d been planning to pop it at midnight, but what the hell, why wait? Surely midnight had already arrived somewhere in the world.

  He pulled out the bottle, then reached into the shoe-box-sized freezer for a tulip glass he’d left in there to chill. It was funny when you got to thinking about time. Look up at some distant star in the sky, and what you were really seeing was the way it looked a few million years back. Turn that perspective on its head and it got even weirder — some alien skywatcher in a far-off system looking at Earth through a futuristic megatelescope would actually see dinosaurs walking through prehistoric jungles. All the human effort that had gone toward reconstructing a part of the past, the fossil digs, the scientific debate over how
the monsters lived, whether T Rex was fast or slow, smart or dumb, whatever, and meanwhile Mork the Astronomer out in space would know the truth at a glance. For him, tonight was New Year’s Eve 2000 going on a million years ago.

  And it gets even weirder, doesn’t it? Scull thought. A million years from now, when there’s nothing left of me except dust — if that much — an egghead on that same planet might see me leaving the building with my bottle of champagne, taking the walk I’m about to take. A million minus ten, and he’d see me and Anna on our first vacation together, a romantic cruise to the Caymans, most of which we spent in our cabin cooking up baby number one. A million minus one, though, and Mork would be witness to the sorry episode of Anna catching me with another woman, stupid, irresponsible fucking fool that I was.

  Scull sighed. The whole thing not only got his brain in a twist, but made him feel about as deep a shade of blue as there was on the color spectrum.

  He uncorked the Cristal. Then he turned his champagne glass upside down over the neck of the bottle, and carried them back to the door.

  His quarters were on the ground level of the building, and when he stepped through his doorway, he was gazing out across a large, flat field toward the complex’s three spherical satellite receivers. Perched atop concrete platforms some three hundred yards distant, their angular metallic tiles gave them the appearance of huge, multifaceted gems.

  For no particular reason, he started walking in their direction. The air was dry and bitterly cold, the ground frozen solid beneath a thin crust of hardpacked snow. Dense, unbroken woodland hemmed the field on three sides, with a single paved road giving egress through the forest on the eastern perimeter. The bare, ice-sheathed branches of the trees shone like delicately blown crystal in the clear winter night.

  Scull stopped midway between the dwelling facility and the array of antennas, listening to the silence. Lights were on in most of the windows behind him, smudging the whitened ground with their reflections. Most of the crew would be at a party that a couple of the techies, Arthur and Elaine Steiner, were throwing in one of the rec rooms. The rest would be at smaller get-togethers in their rooms. And Anna and the kids were thousands of miles away.