Vladimir Kryuchkov, whom Gorbachev in 1988 had ordered to launch a massive industrial and military espionage offensive against the West in order to save millions of rubles for
Under Chernko’s direction, the KGB had outdone Madison Avenue in its new image making, even going so far as to invite American counterparts from the CIA to “tour” the old Dzherzinsky Square headquarters and the new offices in the outer ring. In an effort to convince the world of just how reformed the KGB was, Chernko made highly publicized arrests in the Gorbachev years of certain “outlaw elements” among the Soviet elite who had “illegally profited” at the expense of the Soviet people. Chernko promised they would be severely “disciplined.” One of those so punished was Kiril Marchenko’s brother, Fyodor, accused of “profiteering” in one of the now-not-so-secret party specialty stores. As far as Kiril could find out, Fyodor had been chosen at random by Chernko. Publicly accused by Chernko, he was tried and sentenced to fifteen years, reduced to five as a humanitarian “gesture” by Gorbachev’s administration. Chernko had meanwhile been featured on the cover of
“Comrade Marchenko!”
Marchenko turned to see one of the Kremlin’s guards, ruddy-faced, his breath coming out like a hot tap in the icy air, the red piping on his bluish-gray greatcoat ruby-colored like thin lines of blood, the pea-sized snow bouncing off his fur-lined cap.
“Yes?” answered Marchenko irritably. “What is it?”
“The STAVKA meeting, Comrade. It is about to reconvene.”
Marchenko looked nonplussed at the guard. “But it is—” he glanced at his watch “—not yet one a.m. The adjournment was for another—” Marchenko saw that the second hand on his watch had stopped. His father, who had died in one of the gulags that were supposed to have disappeared under Gorbachev, had once told him that when a man’s watch stops, it is a warning his life is in imminent danger. Of course, Marchenko knew it was a ridiculous peasant superstition of his father’s. Nevertheless, in his present mood, it jolted him, and he resolved that, unpalatable as it was, he would have to ask — beg, if necessary, Chernko to help him deal a death blow to the NATO advance which had become embodied by one man: the American, Freeman. After all, it had been Chernko who had successfully purged the Politburo of Siberian separatists who hated Moscow as much as they hated America and who had been plotting to overthrow Suzlov. It was also Chernko who had come up with the idea of sending SPETS commandos, dressed in captured American uniforms, to infiltrate the NATO lines and sow confusion among the Allied troops in the Dortmund-Bielefeld pocket. What Marchenko needed now was someone with the training to again pose as an American or some other NATO officer but who could penetrate right through to Freeman’s headquarters and kill the American general. Perhaps, thought Marchenko, it could be done in the same way as some of Chernko’s men already “in place” overseas had been ordered, as well as carrying out sabotage, to track down and “eliminate” the commanders of America’s weapons of last resort, the Sea Wolf nuclear subs. If Chernko would support such an audacious plan, then Marchenko would support Chernko in his bid for the presidency, if and when President Suzlov was replaced or died — whichever came first. “If you mean to get ahead in this world,” Marchenko could still hear his father say, “you must swallow your pride now and then.” Kiril Marchenko told himself it was time he did so, to ask Chernko’s help, not only for himself but for Mother Russia— for his family.
As he headed back for the STAVKA meeting in the Council of Ministers, Marchenko saw that the guard, about his son Sergei’s age, could very well be his guard in some godforsaken prison in the Transbaikal if he, Kiril Marchenko, didn’t quickly restore his own reputation in the Politburo and STAVKA.
“You ever been to the Far Eastern Theater?” he asked the guard. “To Khabarovsk?”
“No, Comrade General.”
“You’re lucky then,” replied Marchenko morosely, a sudden flurry of snow swirling about him. “It’s much colder than here. My son tells me that in Khabarovsk, the winds come all the way down from the Kara Sea — the prisoners have to dig through the ice of the Amur River so they can fish. The trouble is, the ice is jagged, you see — not at all smooth and flat as some people imagine. Chaotic — going this way and that at impossible angles.”
The guard was feeling nervous — it was highly unusual for a general to be conversing in such a way with a mere private, especially the celebrated general who was minister of war and who had engineered the penetration of NATO’s Fulda Gap, where the masses of Russian armor had burst through before heading north to the German Plain and south to the Danube Valley, sending the NATO defenses reeling.
“I–I don’t know anything about the Far Eastern Theater, Comrade General. I didn’t know we had taken prisoners east of—”
“No, no, boy,” said Marchenko irritably. “Our
The guard was doubly perplexed — as far as he knew, gulags had been banned ever since the time of the revisionist Gorbachev.
Marchenko had only a few minutes before the STAVKA meeting would be called to order, and presented his deal to Chernko quickly, succinctly.
Chernko rejected it out of hand. “This is not possible,” Chernko said icily. “The American, Freeman, moves too fast. We never know where he is.” Chernko signaled an aide.
“I need help, Comrade,” repeated Marchenko. “If you assist — I will support you wholeheartedly.”
“For what?” asked Chernko, feigning ignorance.
“For whatever you wish, Comrade.”
Chernko replied that perhaps something could be worked out. He did have a plan to stop the Americans, but it was nothing like Marchenko’s “amateur” proposal of assassination behind enemy lines. Nevertheless, he conceded he would welcome Marchenko’s support when he presented his plan to the Politburo at tomorrow’s meeting.
“Can you tell me what it is now?” asked Marchenko.
“Tomorrow,” answered Chernko. “Meanwhile I will welcome your support in
“Support of what?” asked Marchenko.
“Of anything I say.”
Marchenko felt his blood rising at Chernko’s contemptuous tone but held himself in check. President Suzlov was calling the meeting to order. As the members took their positions either side of the long, baize-covered table, with the portrait of Marx gazing down behind them, Chernko’s aide slid in beside his boss, pencil and paper in hand. “Yes, Comrade?”
“Draw up the plan at once,” Chernko informed him. “Two teams — twenty in each — neither must have any knowledge of the other. Purpose — penetrate NATO front lines. Target — the American general, Freeman.”
“Code name?” asked the aide.
“Trojan,” said Chernko. “And Colonel!”
“Sir?”
“Book an appointment for General Marchenko — tomorrow morning. Early.”
“Yes, Comrade Director.”
The room was soon full of blue-gray smoke, and Chernko could see Marchenko sitting glumly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Lingering for a moment before he got out of bed, Robert Brentwood watched Rosemary, her face childlike, her breasts pressing against the turquoise negligee in her contented sleep, and he had the urge to make love again. But dawn was creeping over the western sea, and though this time of day had long ceased to have any meaning for him aboard the
One foot on the windowsill, looking out at the wind-lashed ocean, he began stretching his legs, preparatory to his fifteen-minute workout. He hated it, but — a believer, albeit reluctantly, in the “no gain without pain” school — he forced himself through it twice every twenty-four hours whether he was at sea or not. Out on the
