Politika pp-1

by Tom Clancy

  The resilience of youth? Nordstrum wondered. Or perhaps the inurement of a generation that had been born in an era when terrorism was an ever-present threat, something on a par with environmental calamities like earthquakes and hurricanes? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and could only hope it was the former. For him, anyway, the grandeur of the Capitol was always enough to fill his head with refrains of “Stars and Stripes” and rouse a tremendous sense of obligation to his adopted country.

  He reached Fourteenth Street, jogged in place while waiting for a break in the flow of traffic, then crossed out of the Mall proper onto the monument grounds, where the lawn began its gentle rise to the base of the towering obelisk.

  He had started up the knoll when he heard the slapping of feet against the pavement behind him, and looked back to see Neil Blake following only a few yards downhill. An athletic man of thirty-five with handsome features and longish — for Washington — brown hair, he was wearing a black Speedo running suit with an electric blue stripe down the side, looking exactly like what he was, a member of the smart and spirited power elite.

  “Neil,” Nordstrom said, slowing a little, “how long have you been stalking me?”

  Blake nodded his head back toward Fourteenth Street. “I came in from over by the Ellipse, saw you crossing the road,” he said. “I’d’ve caught up to you sooner, but there was a nice young lady on the path who needed directions, and I sort of had to stop. Besides, I thought I’d let you get in a few extra minutes of peaceful exercise.”

  “Such a considerate fellow,” Nordstrum said. “Did you take her phone number? In case she needs more help getting around.”

  Blake patted his pocket.

  “It’s already tucked away in a safe place,” he said.

  Nordstrum smiled. They ran side by side awhile in silence, cresting the knoll and then heading down toward the Reflecting Pool. The water sparkled in the morning light.

  “I’ve got something for you,” Blake said. “It wasn’t easy. Anyone finds out I leaked it, I can open up that bagel joint my cousin Steve in Chicago always wanted me to go in on.”

  Nordstrum nodded but said nothing.

  “You know the Lian Group?” Blake said.

  “Of course.”

  “They made the goods,” Blake said.

  Nordstrum nodded again. His face was serious and thoughtful.

  “What about the end purchaser?” he asked.

  “The trail leads to a Russian distributor. After that, it’s an open question.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Crap,” Nordstrum said finally, shaking his head.

  “I didn’t figure you’d like my news much,” Blake said.

  Nordstrum was quiet another moment.

  “Is that all of it?” he said.

  “So far, yeah,” Blake said. “I’ll let you know if I dig up anything more.”

  “Thanks,” Nordstrum said. “I’m glad I gave you an A in class.”

  “I earned it,” Blake said.

  Nordstrum looked over at him.

  “Insolent pup,” he said.

  * * *

  “It’s looking more and more as if you were right the other day, Gord,” Nordstrum said into his telephone.

  Freshly showered and wrapped in a bathrobe, he was back in his Pennsylvania Avenue townhouse after his jog, and had just gotten through telling Gordian what he’d learned from Blake.

  “I’m almost wishing I’d been wrong,” Gordian said. “This Lian Group… I’ve heard of it before. Didn’t the name come up in the Thompson campaign finance hearings a few years ago?”

  “Right again,” Nordstrum said. “The evidence that it was involved in funneling Chinese government funds into our election wasn’t as conclusive as it was for Lippo, among other foreign contributors… but it was strong nonetheless. In my opinion, Lian money gave at least two senators a considerable edge against their opponents, and may very likely have won them their seats.”

  “I’m still pretty much with Megan insofar as being confused. What’s the connection between Lian and the Russians? And specifically which Russians?”

  Nordstrum sat forward on his living room sofa, absently winding the telephone wire around his fingers.

  “The best I can do is speculate,” he said. “I mean, I’d need to look into my files, do some research, before I could expect you to bank on this information.”

  “Go ahead, I understand.”

  “There are circumstances that would point toward Russia’s Agricultural Minister, Yeni Bashkir, being knee-deep in this affair. He and Lian have a long relationship. As do members of the Chinese regime and Bashkir. Also, Bashkir’s family held commercial interests throughout Asia until after the Bolshevik Revolution.”

  “And his motive?”

  “Bashkir’s hardly an Americanophile… is that the proper term?”

  “I’m not sure,” Gordian said, “but the meaning’s clear enough.”

  “Be that as it may, he distrusts capitalism and democracy, and like many in his generation would have preferred to save the old Communist system by fiddling with it, rather than see it dismantled. Also, while not an extreme nationalist in the Pedachenko vein, he’s unquestionably something of a cultural chauvinist.”

  “So you’re saying he might have wanted to disrupt Starinov’s pro-U.S. initiatives, make him look ineffectual.”

  “In essence, agreeing with what you suggested at our meeting,” Nordstum said. He realized he’d gotten his phone cord hopelessly tangled and worked to extract his fingers.

  Gordian sighed at the other end of the line.

  “Doesn’t the fact that Bashkir helped negotiate the assistance package undermine our hypothesis?” he said. “Look at any photo of Starinov when he was at the White House back in October, you’ll see the minister at his side.”

  Nordstrum made a sound in his throat that was the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

  “Gord, I know you’re a glass half-full sort of person. But you’re as aware as I am that Russian politics hasn’t come very far from the imperial courts of Catherine or Nicholas II. There’s a long, cherished tradition of back-stabbing intrigue in the capital, whether you’re talking about modern-day Moscow or St. Petersburg in the nineteenth century.”

  There was a brief silence. Nordstrum struggled to untangle the knotted up wire, letting his friend think.

  “Okay,” Gordian said finally. “Can you put together a brief for Nimec, get it to him via e-mail by tonight?”

  “Might be a bit thin on detail… but yes, I can do it.”

  “Send copies to Blackburn and Megan in Kaliningrad. And to Vince Scull, for that matter. Let’s see what our combined brain trust can accomplish.”

  “Right,” Nordstrum said. He was getting hungry for breakfast. “Anything else?”

  “Only one small favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You ought to work on that habit of playing with the telephone wire while you’re talking, or at least get a cordless,” Gordian said. “I’m hearing all kinds of static here at my end.”

  Nordstrum frowned.

  “For you, boss, I’ll certainly do my best,” he said.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA JANUARY 7, 2000

  A few moments past eleven o’clock at night, Pete Nimec sat at his laptop computer in his home office, his face a study in concentration as he read the e-mail that had just appeared on its display regarding Gordian’s ongoing investigation into the events in Russia, code-named “Politika”:

  Status: Reply 1 of 1, 3 attachments (PEM Sign and Encrypt)

  Re: “Politika”

  >Pete,

  >It’s 2 A.M. here in D.C., but I wanted to

  >complete and upload the data files you

  >requested before hitting the sack.

  >Knowing you as well as I do, you’re

  >probably online looking for them right now,

  >and won’t be able to tear yourself away from

 
>the damn machine until they’ve popped into

  >your mailbox. So here they are — a bit on the

  >sketchy side, but the best I could do on short

  >notice. I suggest you give the material a

  >quick review and relax. It’s already much too

  >late for me to get a decent night’s sleep, but

  >there’s no sense in both of us staying up to

  >greet the Wolf.

  >Best, Alex

  Nimec moved his cursor to the menu bar, clicked on the Download option, then rocked backward in his chair and waited, smiling a little. Alex was so often correct it was uncanny. And he never disappointed.

  When the transfer was done, Nimec logged off the Internet server, opened the first of the three files, and began scrolling through it:

  Profile: Bashkir, Yeni

  HISTORY

  PERSONAL:

  Born 2/12/46 in Vladivostok, Primorsky Kray. Paternal grandfather operated pre-Bolshevik import/export firm with offices throughout China and Korea. Father (deceased) among the first generation of naval officers in Soviet Pacific Fleet. Mother (deceased) of Manchurian Chinese ancestry. Bashkir is married and presently lives in Moscow. The eldest of his two adult sons is a concert violinist who has toured with…

  Nimec let his eyes go down to the following section; what Alex meant by “sketchy” might have constituted a full academic treatise for other researchers.

  MILITARY/POLITICAL:

  Followed his father into distinguished naval career; served with Soviet Pacific Fleet during Cold War; captained November-class and Echo II–CLASS nuclear submarines berthed in Kamchatka Peninsula. Promoted to rear admiralty in 1981, eventually achieved command of entire nuclear sub fleet. Former Communist Party member; joined Yeltsin’s party approx. 1991. Close associations with Beijing regime, esp. government trade officials, extended through period of strained Sino-Soviet relations. Handpicked by President Mikhail Gorbachev to be special consul to China, 1992; instrumental in strengthening political and economic links between the two nations. Primary author of Chinese-Russian cooperation agreements in 1996 and 1997…

  The next few paragraphs were devoted to a summary of the agreements, which were more declarations of principle and intent than formal pacts. Something he read farther down in that same section, however, made Nimec sit up straight with interest:

  In August 1999 Bashkir attended trade summit in Beijing and was chief negotiator of bilateral arms/technology exchange agreement. Delegation of Russian arms merchants included representatives of Zavtra Group (see accompanying file), of which Bashkir is said to be a major shareholder. Also among business executives present were Teng Chou, Chairman of the Malaysian Lian Chemicals (see file), reputed to be Chinese-controlled.

  Nimec read those lines twice before continuing, his eyes riveted to the screen, a low, thoughtful sound issuing from his throat. It seemed to contain the answers to a lot of questions — and that was what bothered him. He mistrusted the obvious.

  He sipped the lukewarm coffee on his desk and scanned the rest of the document.

  Bashkir was appointed minister of the interior by President Boris Yeltsin 1999, retains post to present. Friendship with Vladimir Starinov said to have begun while Starinov was commanding general of elite Air Assault Force (VDV) division stationed in Petropavlovsk, Kamchatka region. While still professing personal and political loyalty to Starinov, he has been a vehement critic of his accelerated economic decontrols and Western-style democratic reforms…

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Nimec reached the end of the dossier. He printed it out, closed the file, and opened the next one on his download queue, a detailed rundown of the Lian Group’s various international holdings.

  It was midnight before he’d finished looking over Nordstrum’s reports, and the feeling he had after having skimmed the last of the three was a more intense version of how he’d felt midway into the Bashkir file — a sense that things were just too damn easy. Somehow, he was reminded of a trip he’d taken to the Great Adventure Theme Park in New Jersey many years before. You drove along automobile paths that led through simulated wildlife habitats, but the truly dangerous animals were restrained behind not very well camouflaged fences. The idea being for visitors to have the illusion of traveling down a safari trail while in fact remaining on a safe, contrived, and carefully overseen route.

  Rubbing his eyes, Nimec again made hard copies of the reports, then abandoned the program, switched off his computer, and closed its cover. He pushed back his chair, stood, and stretched, rotating his neck and shoulders to work the kinks out of his muscles. He was simultaneously exhausted and wired, and knew himself well enough to realize he would be unable to sleep. There was something else here, something he wasn’t getting, a layer of understanding that seemed just out of reach.

  Nimec shook his head. He needed desperately to unwind.

  Leaving the office, he went across the wide, unpartitioned space of his living room, dining room, and kitchen to his private elevator. He thumbed the Call button, and when the car arrived rode it to the upper level of his triplex condominium apartment.

  The elevator opened into a rec/training complex that spanned the entire floor and was divided into four large areas, all enclosed by a circular indoor jogging track: the dojo where he conducted his daily martial arts exercises, a fully equipped boxing gym, a soundproof target range, and the room he was headed into now, a faithful recreation of the dingy Philadelphia pool hall he’d haunted as a teenager, learning the game from some of the best players, not to mention the most seriously degenerate gamblers, ever to work magic with a cue stick… his own father unrivaled among them.

  He pushed through the door and went inside. The room held two rows of antique championship tables with scarred frames and green baize playing surfaces that had been restored to their original appearance and leveled for optimum performance. There was a Coca-Cola soda bar with a Formica snack counter and rotating vinyl stools. There was a Wurlitzer jukebox that was wrapped in neon tubing and stocked with vintage rock and roll 45s. There were cheap plastic light fixtures from which a bilious glow seeped through conscientiously preserved layers of grime. The wall-to-wall memorabilia Nimec had scavenged from innumerable secondhand shops and flea markets included outdated nude pinup calendars, as well as signs stipulating ancient game rates and prohibitions against betting by minors.

  The only thing missing was the pervasive bouquet of sweat, brilliantine, and cigarette smoke, and while Nimec supposed he was better off without that final touch of authenticity, he often had a perverse longing for it all the same.

  Flicking on the lights, he pulled one of his custom twenty-ounce cues down off the wall and went to a table. He took six of the balls out of the built-in storage shelf at its foot and arranged them in a semicircle around a side pocket, having decided to work on his drills instead of racking up for continuous shooting. It had been over a week since he’d gotten in any practice.

  Nimec chalked his stick, bent over the table rail, then laid the cue tip in the bridge he formed with his fingers and methodically sawed it back and forth.

  Out of habit, he had placed the eight ball in the lead spot, his way of discharging any bad luck at the onset. He always took luck very seriously into consideration, had since his days in the Army Rangers, when he’d developed a host of elaborate — some had called them superstitious — rituals for courting good fortune in battle. Though his propitiations to Fate had assumed different outward forms in civilian life, the general practice had stuck.

  Now, as he visualized the intended path of the cue ball, his gray eyes showed the quiet, steady focus of a sharp-shooter. The trick here was to pocket the balls in sequence from right to left, using draw English to gain position each time for the following shot.

  Keeping his wrist loose and his arm close to his side, he brought the stick straight back and then came through with a fluid, precise stroke, striking the cue ball below center to apply reverse spin. I
t sank the eight ball and came rolling back toward him, stopping right behind the next ball in line.

  Exactly where he wanted it.

  He pocketed three more balls in rapid succession, but on his fifth shot inadvertently tightened his hand around the butt of the cue stick, causing it to jerk upward at the last instant. To his annoyance, the cue ball went clattering down along with his fifth object ball.

  A scowl creased Nimec’s angular face. He had scratched like a rank amateur.

  He took a deep breath. A lot more than just his game was off tonight. A whole damn lot. Nordstrum’s reports seemed to indicate that the FBI was, as the press had been claiming for days, in possession of an intact explosive package; he doubted the Lian-Zavtra connection would have been made so quickly without a scientific check of taggants or traceable components within the instrument of destruction. Of course the chemical residue of tagged, detonated charges also would have yielded that information, but the bottom line remained the same either way. Bashkir’s handprints were everywhere. There was good reason to suspect he was at the innermost level of the bombing conspiracy, if not its principal architect. But what would his motive have been? To fire up isolationist sentiments in the U.S., provoke a reassessment of the food relief effort that was drawing Russia closer to the West? That was the only explanation that made the slightest bit of sense, and there were too many problems with it. Bashkir was a military man. Someone who had held one of the highest posts in the Russian Navy, commanding the world’s second largest fleet of ballistic-missile subs. He was also a dealmaker, used to carefully weighing his decisions. Would he really be able to justify the wholesale murder of civilians for such indirect and uncertain gains? Moreover, he recently had been involved in negotiating major arms transactions between his country and China, and perhaps even had a financial interest in a Russian firm that listed weapons distribution among its diverse shipping enterprises. He would know how easy it would be to follow the trail of the explosive from manufacturer to purchaser, and that the search would eventually lead to questions about his role in the bombing. Where was the sense in the thing?