but lightly used, and very quiet.'
'Where do we keep 'em?'
'Oh, there's a couple in the Pacific Fleet, two more in the Northern Fleet up near Murmansk.'
'Do you know the ships personally? I mean are they ready to go?'
'One came out of refit last spring, sir. She's on sea trials right now, just completing. A very good ship, sir. I went out in her a month ago.'
'Aha, and what's her name, this Akula-class hunter-killer?'
'She's
'Thank you, Admiral. That will be all for the moment.'
It was always a favorite haunt of the military junta that ruled Argentina so spectacularly badly in the late 1970s and very early 1980s. It made for a kind of clamorous escape from the fierce undercurrents of unrest that were edging the great South American Republic of Argentina toward outright revolution.
It was a sanctuary from the hatred of the populace, a sanctuary with sweet tea, sugary pastries, and piped tango music. And it still stands today, still frequented by Argentinian military personnel, right next to the venerable old Harrods building, that far-lost symbol of a far-lost friendship.
The Generals and the Admirals always met here pre-1982 to indulge in military plots and plans against the British government. At that time they were just working out ways to look better, to stem the engulfing tide of the seething, restless middle classes. They were trying to stay in power. So unpopular was the junta that they really needed a rabble-rousing foreign policy to hang on to their limousines.
And in so many ways the year 2010 was not much different. The shattering defeat of 1982 still rankled with the populace down all the years. And the visions of the Falkland Islands — their very own Malvinas — still stood stark before them; high, wide, and handsome, very British and now chock-full of oil.
The inflamed, reckless ambitions of a junta of long ago was just as virulent in 2010, but now it lurked in the minds of a new breed of Argentinian military officer, better equipped, better trained, and better educated.
Which was why, on this cool, sunlit Monday afternoon, two senior Argentinian officers, one a General, the other an Admiral, plus a medium-rank Cabinet minister, were sitting quietly at a corner table in the
The appointment had been arranged by the Russian embassy, but it was stressed their official would not be in residence there. And the Russians had stressed they preferred the meeting to take place somewhere discreet.
And now the Argentinians waited, staring out through the wide windows onto tony Florida Avenue, down which their visitor would probably walk from the Claridge Hotel.
And they were not kept waiting long. At 4:32 p.m., the stocky, quietly dressed Gregor Komoyedov arrived. He was in his mid-fifties, wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark red tie, and carrying, as arranged, a copy of the
Freddie stood up and introduced General Eduardo Kampf and Admiral Oscar Moreno. All three of them were wearing civilian clothes, and they each shook the hand of the Russian Minister for Foreign Trade, whom the President had selected for this mission on the basis of his superior worldliness.
'I expect you would like some coffee, being a Russian,' General Kampf said and smiled.
'That would be very civilized,' replied the Russian. 'Perhaps we should speak in English, your second language, I believe…?'
'No problem,' replied the General. 'And I should confirm we are extremely anxious to hear your business here — your embassy was very closemouthed about it…for a minute we thought you might be declaring war!'
'Ah, you military guys, that's all you think about. My own background is deep in the Russian oil industry, strictly commercial. To us, war is unthinkable, mainly because it gets in the way of making money!'
Everyone laughed. Mostly because the Argentinians were not yet aware of the colossal insincerity of that remark. But old Gregor was a wily Muscovite wheeler-dealer from way back. He knew how to coax a subject along gently.
The coffee and pastries arrived, and, at a nod from the Admiral, the piped tango music began to play a tad higher. 'I don't think we will be overheard,' he said. 'And I am looking forward to your proposition.'
Gregor smiled. 'But how do you know I have one?'
'Because you would not be here otherwise, having flown halfway around the world, on obvious orders from the President, in a dark and clandestine manner.'
'Well, let me begin by assuming you all know of the recent massive oil strikes in the Malvinas,' he said, skillfully banishing the British name for the islands from his vocabulary.
All three Argentinians nodded.
'And I imagine you continue to feel the same sense of injustice you had in 1982. After all, the oil is yours by rights, and most fair-minded people in the world understand that. How London can possibly proclaim they own those islands, eight thousand miles from England, and a mere three hundred miles off your long coastline…well, that's a mystery no one really grasps. But the British have some inflated views of both their past and their present.'
'The Americans understand,' said General Kampf.
'They'll understand anything they choose to,' said Gregor Komoyedov. 'Just so long as there's a good buck in it for them, ha?'
'They're going to make a good buck in the Malvinas,' added Freddie. 'We understand Exxon are in there already in partnership with British Petroleum.'
'I did hear,' added the Russian, 'there was some talk the Argentinian military might be assessing the possibility of a new campaign against the Malvinas — a sudden, brutal, preemptive strike, and an occupation of the islands that could easily withstand a counterattack from the Royal Navy?'
'I wish,' replied Admiral Moreno. 'But no one's told me.'
'Well, perhaps I transgress into military secrets that are none of my, or my country's, business.'
'Perhaps you do,' said the Admiral. 'But we would all prefer you to go on talking…'
'If, for instance, you did find yourself owning the oil, you would find a very willing partner in the Russian government, to help you drill, pump, and market it, in the most profitable way.
'We could do for you what the Americans did for the Saudi Arabians. We have the know-how. And our pipeline techniques are probably second to none, since we pump directly out of the West Siberian Basin. And we are used to working in extreme weather conditions.
'No one could help you quite like we could. We would take over the operation completely, and pay you a generous royalty for every barrel. We would allow you to oversee the daily output, and we would build you a tanker terminal in order to maximize the exports. Our aim would be the U.S. market along their Gulf Coast.'
'The snag is, of course,' replied Freddie, 'we do not own the Malvinas, nor have I discerned any anxiety on our government's part that we should own the Malvinas. I mean, we do get periodic bouts of anger from the media, that our birthright to those islands has somehow been grabbed away from us by an outmoded colonial power.
'And we do hear outbursts from politicians, that we should again try to negotiate a treaty with the British, which would ultimately make the islands ours. But nothing definite…no, nothing definite at all.'
The table fell silent. Admiral Moreno signaled for more coffee, and since Gregor Komoyedov was plainly enjoying the sweet little pastries, he signaled for a few more of those as well.
And the sugar intake further galvanized the man from Moscow. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'do you have any idea what recent London governments have done to the British military? They have decimated their regiment system, the one that has terrified their opponents for about three hundred years. They have cut down on the numbers of armored vehicles, tanks, and artillery. Much of their equipment, including combat clothing, is out of date. Even their small arms are suspect.
'The Royal Navy has been beaten down, their fleet reduced to a pale shadow of that which faced down Hitler
