Politika pp-1

by Tom Clancy

  If the conclusions laid out in those documents were correct, if, he would be outraged, horrified, and soul-sick. And the hell of it was, he had realized he would have to act on those feelings or be unable to live with himself. What kind of national leader would that make him? A President whose major policy decisions were prompted by heart and conscience? Jesus Almighty, he’d be great white Washington shark food!

  “The way I see it, we’ve still got some wriggle room here,” Vice President Humes said. “The Bashkir connection is based on inference. Implication. Circumstantial evidence. As far as I can see, it’s going to be impossible for anyone to conclusively establish his guilt—”

  The President propped his right elbow on the table, formed a wide V with his thumb and forefinger, and leaned the bridge of his nose down into it. He simultaneously pushed his right palm out in the air like a traffic cop signaling Humes to a full stop.

  “Listen to me, Steve. Listen carefully,” he said. “This isn’t about what we can prove. It’s about what we believe or do not believe to be true. And these reports make a convincing case that the Russian minister of the interior brought about the deaths of a thousand American citizens, on American soil, the mayor of America’s largest city among them.” He paused a moment, his head still lowered into his hand, looking almost penitent. “This puts the attack nearly on a scale with Pearl Harbor… and it occurred during my goddamned watch.”

  “I agree,” said Kenneth Taylor, the national security advisor. “And it’s probably worth mentioning that the Japanese were going after a military target, not civilians.”

  “There’s a more important distinction to bear in mind, though,” said Secretary of Defense Roger Farrand, stroking his scrupulously trimmed Mellvillian beard. “Should Bashkir be responsible, he would have been acting as a member of a renegade cell, not a representative of the government in power. In fact, it goes beyond that. What he did, if he did it, was a deliberate attempt at bringing down one of his own country’s leaders.”

  “Qualifying him as a subversive and traitor within Russia, as well as an international criminal,” Secretary of State Bowman said, nodding. “I think I see Roger’s point, and tend to go along with him on this.”

  Which, given the two men’s usual contentious relationship, was yet another source of inner upheaval for the President. What next? Would the world tilt on its axis, the sun go dark at noon, the sky itself turn upside down? He had been launched into uncharted waters, and there were dragons beneath his keel.

  “I’d appreciate it if one of you would explain what you’re getting at,” he said. “Maybe I’m overtired, but I need it served up nice and plain.”

  Bowman nodded again. “Starinov could very publicly expose Bashkir. I can’t see any reason why he wouldn’t want to, considering Bashkir’s disloyalty. Should he oust him from his cabinet post immediately, it would be a start at salvaging Starinov’s reputation and our relationship with him. After that, we can talk about bringing him to trial, maybe establish a U.N. tribunal that could charge him with crimes against humanity.” He paused. “I know I’m broad-jumping here, but it’s a direction in which we really ought to move.”

  “Everything you’ve said sounds fine, but there are a couple of aspects to the situation you may be overlooking,” President Ballard said. “The evidence we’ve obtained is highly subject to interpretation, and Starinov is liable to draw less certain conclusions from it than we have… if and when we present it to him. These two men have been friends and allies for decades.”

  “He could be pressured,” the Veep said. “Starinov needs our support to continue sharing power with Korsikov and Pedachenko, and probably to win election once the state of emergency in Russia is lifted. We can make it clear that backing will be withdrawn unless he gives up Bashkir.”

  President Ballard looked at him with mild wonder. A few minutes ago Humes had been talking about giving their administration wriggle room, a way to avoid holding Bashkir accountable for mass murder in pursuit of political goals. By what shortcut of reasoning had he gone from there to his latest suggestion? Had he always been this cynical? Ballard suddenly felt like someone who’d found religion, or gone from being a three-pack-a-day smoker to being an anti-tobacco activist. But what place was there for a born-again idealist in office? He needed to get a grip.

  “I’m not averse to maneuvering Starinov if it comes to that,” he said. “But I think I know the man a little and, believe me, his personal allegiance isn’t to be underestimated.”

  “Et tu, Bruté,” Taylor said.

  “Exactly.” The President straightened in his chair. “Right now, I’m wondering if we ought to be less concerned with reaction in Moscow than in Washington. We’ve got Delacroix sitting on the Senate Foreign Affairs Committee and the Intelligence Committee. He’s objected to our foreign aid package to Russia from the beginning, and these reports will finally give him something to hang his hat on.”

  “You can bet on it being a circus ringmaster’s hat, too,” Humes said. “The only question is what sort of dog-and-pony show he’s going to put on.”

  President Ballard looked at him.

  “This report’s going to be in his hands by tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Something tells me you’ll have your answer soon enough. I suggest that you have a response formulated and ready to go before the good senator takes the stage.”

  * * *

  They met near midnight, in the square outside Saint Basil’s Cathedral. Just the two of them, as arranged, although each arrived with an assignment of bodyguards, who hung a short and inconspicuous distance back in the shadows. Whatever trust there was between them was bought and maintained with power.

  “Arkady,” Starinov said with a nod of greeting.

  His hands in the pockets of his trench coat, Pedachenko gave him an agreeable, artificial smile.

  “I’m glad you agreed to meet tonight, Vladimir,” he said.

  Starinov said nothing in response. It was bitterly cold and he was bundled in a heavy wool coat, scarf, and fur hat. Pedachenko, however, stood with his thick hair whipping in the wind, and the top buttons of his coat open, as if in brash challenge to the elements.

  The man was steeped in his own arrogance, Starinov thought.

  Pedachenko turned, craning back his head to look up at the unlikely group of turban domes above them. The floodlights that illuminated the cathedral for tourists were switched off at this hour; in the darkness, its fanciful architecture took on the strange, alien nature of a half-forgotten myth.

  “I’ve been thinking a little about St. Basil tonight,” he said. “The Holy Fool who shunned all creature comforts, walking naked in the snow, eating and drinking only what he needed to survive. Yet known for always speaking the truth. For being the living conscience of the Russian people. A man so good and pious that even Ivan the Terrible tolerated his barbs.”

  Starinov looked at him.

  “I hope,” he said, “you aren’t going to profess to that sort of self-denial.”

  Pedachenko chuckled.

  “Nor anything like St. Basil’s virtue,” he said, turning back toward Starinov. “We are politicians, Vladimir. That in itself damns us, don’t you think?”

  Starinov shrugged and looked directly into the other man’s pale blue eyes. He wanted to get down to business.

  “If we are to discuss matters of state, as I assume is the case, then shouldn’t Korsikov be with us?”

  “He is the reason we’ve come here rather than to a pleasant old government chamber. One where we could clink snifters of brandy and stare meditatively at crackling logs as we speak,” Pedachenko said. His smile, though unmoving, had somehow become derisive. “If you will pardon the term, Korsikov is the weak sister in our troika, Vladimir. And he is also a prying one. There’s no point in having him meddle. We will make our decisions tonight, and he will go along with them.”

  Starinov kept looking at him.

  “Whatever your opinion of Korsikov, he is still in pla
ce within the Kremlin.”

  “But perhaps not for much longer,” Pedachenko said.

  Starinov was quiet for several seconds. His breath puffed from his nose in little jets of vapor.

  “Hours after Yeltsin died, the three of us formed our interim government, and mutually decided that it would last until there is an election,” he said. “I will not engage in conspiratorial back-stabbing—”

  Pedachenko held up his hand.

  “Please, Vladimir, you misunderstand me,” he said. “What I am about to propose is strictly aboveboard. There will be no garrotes in the night, either literally or figuratively. ”

  Starinov regarded Pedachenko appraisingly.

  “Let’s hear it, then,” he said. “I want to get home before dawn.”

  Pedachenko nodded.

  “What seemed a good idea when Yeltsin sank into a tub of vodka has obviously proven unworkable,” he said. “Have you noticed the GUM department store across this very plaza?”

  A mordant smile touched Starinov’s lips. “I’ve not had much time for shopping lately.”

  “Ah, but even from your high perch, it must be clear that the lines at the shops and food stands have vanished. Merchandise gathers dust on the shelves. The hollow prosperity your deceased president once trumpeted has crashed down into a black hole.” Pedachenko spread his hands. “Our nation is in deepening turmoil, Vladimir. The international food relief effort has stalled, crime barons rape the people at every turn, a moral degeneration has—”

  “My God, Pedachenko, look around you! There are no television cameras here. So, please, save the sanctimony for your viewers. I’ve already asked you once to get to the point.”

  Pedachenko’s face showed its rigid, superficial smile again. Starinov felt as if he were looking at a cardboard mask.

  “The country needs one leader to guide it, not three,” Pedachenko said. “The troika’s fractured vision has made our people stagger in descending circles.” He gazed at Starinov with unblinking eyes. “I’ve come to propose that you step down. Cede power to me for the good of our motherland.”

  Starinov looked at him.

  “I wish I could say you’ve surprised me, Arkady,” he said. “But this is just the sort of thing I expected.”

  “And?”

  “And what alternative do you offer? This third Great Patriotic War I’ve been hearing about?” Starinov laughed. “It is nothing but an admittedly stirring diversion. Icons and fanfare and ethnic superiority holding it together. I can’t help but be reminded of the rallies at Nuremburg.”

  Pedachenko’s smile drew in at the edges until it was gone. “You should choose your words more carefully,” he said.

  Starinov gave him a look of mock surprise. “Ah, you take umbrage. I’m reminded of Milosevic in the Balkans.”

  “Whom you embraced.”

  “Out of political necessity, as I do in your case,” Starinov said. “How sensitive men like you become when we evoke comparisons with the Nazis. Why is that, Pedachenko? Do you fear the demon in the mirror?”

  “I fear the loss of our national honor and dignity. I fear the humiliation of going to the United States for handouts. I fear having Russia sold out to its enemies. Zgranista nam pamoshit, foreign countries will help us. That is your solution to every problem.”

  The wind flapped Starinov’s collar. He felt cold fingers of air slip under his scarf and fended off a shiver.

  “Listen to me, please,” he said quietly. “The world is not as either of us would wish it to be, yet we are in an age when no nation can be a fortress.” He paused. “Do you know the American satellite station in Kaliningrad? The one being built by Roger Gordian? When it is completed, it will be technically possible to place a telephone booth on an upper slope of Mount Everest, and communicate with someone tens of thousands of miles away. Without wires, and with only solar batteries for power. Think of it, Arkady. Is that not miracle and wonder? You must recognize that mankind will be linked in the future, not divided.”

  “And if your miracle means the mountain reaches will echo with American popular songs?”

  “Then we will pray that what we have gained is worth what was lost,” Starinov said. He waited a moment, then shrugged. “To be plain, Arkady, I reject your proposal. There will be no retreat into the glorified past.”

  Pedachenko stood there in silence. His eyes were a wall of ice.

  “You can’t prevail,” he said finally. “The people will not stand by while the country goes to ruin. They will assemble behind me.”

  “You speak so confidently, I might indeed think you had the power of prediction,” Starinov said. “Like Saint Basil.”

  Pedachenko remained motionless for another long moment, fixing Starinov with his cold, blue stare. Then his shoulders stiffened, and he whipped around and strode across the cobbled plaza to his guards.

  Starinov watched him move away until he’d faded into the darkness, then walked off in the opposite direction.

  THIRTY-THREE

  WASHINGTON, D.C. JANUARY 28, 2000

  The light was lit atop the ornate Capitol dome. A red bulb glowed above the north doors. A bell tolled out a single extended note in the chamber. The majority and minority leaders greeted each other with courtly decorum and then repaired to their front-row desks at either side of the center aisle. The parliamentarian, clerks, and secretaries were seated, the president pro tempore took his gavel in hand, unobtrusive C-SPAN cameras winked to life, and the day’s session of the august legislative body came to order.

  Up in the gallery, Roger Gordian watched the opening speaker, Senator Bob Delacroix of Louisiana, take the floor, striding toward the rostrum with starch, dark-suited dignity, a pair of well-groomed young aides respectfully following at his rear.

  The stuffed black bear the aides were carrying between them stood six feet tall and had on red satin wrestling trunks embroidered with the hammer and sickle emblem of the long gone U.S.S.R.

  “Friends and colleagues, today I’m going to introduce you to Boris the Wrestling Bear!” Delacroix boomed. “By the way, the reason he dragged his old shorts out of the closet is that they fit a whole lot better than the new ones!”

  Chuckles and applause on his side of the aisle.

  Sidewise glances and enduring sighs on the other.

  “Boris might look like a nice bear, but don’t let him fool you. No matter how much he eats, he’s always hungry. That’s because he’s growing bigger and stronger every day… and you better believe he’ll bite the hand that feeds him!”

  Gordian stifled a disgusted groan.

  Ladeez and gents, he thought, welcome to the main attraction.

  “Let me tell you a little story about Boris. It’s not pretty, and it won’t be for the fainthearted. But, hey, there’s a lesson to be learned from it,” Delacroix went on. “Once upon a time, Boris had an appetite so big he thought he could eat the whole world. Nothing would satisfy him! He ate and he ate and he ate until he got so heavy he collapsed from his own weight. That was when his kindly Uncle Sam stepped along, put him on the Dr. Freemarket diet, taught him manners, taught him how to be civilized, and tried convincing him to give up his gluttonous ways.”

  Again there were snorts of laughter from slightly more than half the senators in the hall. The remainder looked embarrassed.

  “Well, folks, for a few years the diet seemed to work, and Boris even squeezed himself into a pair of trunks that were the same red, white, and blue colors as Uncle Sam’s clothes — with the stripes in a different pattern, of course, just so nobody’d call him a copycat!” Delacroix’s voice projected to the chamber’s vaulted ceiling.

  Gordian was suddenly reminded of Burt Lancaster in The Rainmaker. Or was he thinking of that other movie, the one in which Lancaster played a tent-show evangelical? And the amazing thing was that it seemed to be working. Even if he was only preaching to the converted and semiconverted, they were becoming visibly roused.

  “But then Boris fell back on his
old, bad habits,” Delacroix continued. “Boris got hungry again. Only this time he’d become used to begging for handouts from Uncle Sam, sort of like those grizzlies in Yosemite that’ll come right up to your tent for food. And Uncle Sam, decent, generous soul that he was — overly generous, if you ask me — couldn’t bring himself to say no. See, Sam had convinced himself that by keeping Boris close to his tent, by letting him watch Uncle Sam conduct his daily business through the flaps, Boris would learn how to stand on his own two feet. Believe it or not, Uncle Sam gave him hundreds of thousands of tons of food. Tens of millions of dollars. You heard me, tens of millions, just to keep him sticking around! And you know what happened? Can any of you guess? Boris turned on him! Boris sneaked into the tent and did something so horrendous, so unthinkable I can hardly bring myself to tell you about it. But I have to, you see, I have to. Because some of you still haven’t realized that you can take the bear out of the hammer and sickle, but you can never take the hammer and sickle out of the bear!”

  Rapt silence in the hall. By now every one of the senators had read or heard about the intelligence reports linking Bashkir to the Times Square bloodbath, and they pretty well knew where Delacroix was heading.

  Gordian realized that even he was leaning forward, riveted by the performance. He had wondered earlier if Delacroix would step out of his Boris spiel when he got to this point, perhaps curb the histrionics, but that surely wasn’t going to happen. The senator with the Cajun roots was a showman to the end.

  “… crept into Sam’s tent one night when he let down his guard, a night when he was celebrating, a night that was supposed to be about hope and peace and prayers for a glowing new century, and sank his teeth deep into his flesh,” Delacroix was saying. “He ripped at him, tore a chunk out of him, wounded him so badly, scarred him so grievously, that the pain will last forever. Forever! And you know what? Hold onto your seats with both hands, my dear friends, hold on tight as you can, because what I’m going to tell you next is really incredible.” Delacroix strode from behind the podium, his head craned exaggeratedly forward, his gaze ranging back and forth across the large room. “Are you listening? Are you holding on? Okay, here it is: The bear had the audacity to come back the next day and pretend nothing had ever happened. To actually beg for more food! And some people, some misguided, foolish people — I won’t mention any names, but we all know who they are — wanted Uncle Sam to close his eyes and do it!”