“Good.” Kaminov pointed at Soloviev. “The colonel is my military aide. He’ll accompany me.”
“Of course, sir.” The bureaucrat’s eyes flicked nervously in Soloviev’s direction. Last-minute additions to presidential meetings were rare. That made this officer someone to be watched. And possibly someone to be feared. He nodded toward the Arsenal’s main door. “If you’ll follow me, gentlemen?”
The inner office of Russia’s President was a relatively small room more cluttered than decorated. A large marble-topped writing desk, several plush chairs, and a more modem and utilitarian computer desk all competed for the limited floor space on a hand-woven Armenian rug. Thick drapes cloaked a large, arched window overlooking the Arsenal’s inner courtyard. Pictures of the republic’s leader, smiling, white-haired, and boisterous in summit meetings with other heads of state, filled the other three walls.
Only close examination showed that the room’s current occupant was the same man shown in the photographs. The President was starting to show the tremendous strain involved in governing an almost ungovernable nation. His thick white hair was thinning and his eyes were shadowed and bloodshot. New lines across his broad forehead and around his mouth gave him a haggard, worn appearance.
“Yuri, it’s good to see you.” The President’s words were more enthusiastic than his tone. He’d had to pay a continuing price to keep Kaminov’s support for his political and economic reforms, and he was a man who disliked owing anybody for anything.
“Mr. President.” Kaminov gestured toward Soloviev. “I don’t believe you’ve met Colonel Valentin Soloviev.”
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” The President paused, visibly searching his memory. His eyes narrowed. “But I have heard many… interesting… things about this young officer. You were ranked first among your class at the Frunze Military Academy, yes?”
Soloviev shook his head. “Second, Mr. President.” He smiled tightly. “But the man who was first died in Afghanistan. I survived.” He pushed away mental pictures of the dead, the maimed, and burning, broken villages. Years of constant combat, ambush, and atrocity. And all for nothing.
The President watched him closely, as though waiting for him to say more. Then he nodded in understanding. Few veterans of the Afghan War ever said much about their experiences. All memories of that debacle were bad. He pointed to two chairs in front of his desk. “Sit down, gentlemen. To business, eh?”
They sat.
“Now, Marshal, exactly what is so urgent that it could not wait until our next Defense Council meeting?”
“The fate of our nation, Mr. President,” Kaminov said bluntly. “That is the urgent matter we must discuss. And decide.”
“Oh?” The President raised a single eyebrow. His hand drifted closer to the phone on his desk. The chief of the general staff was hardly likely to try launching a coup with just one officer by his side. But then stranger things had happened in Russia over the past several years. “Perhaps you’ll explain what you mean by that.”
“Of course.” Kaminov frowned. “Anyone with his eyes open can see the dangers we face this winter.” He ticked them off one by one on his thick fingers anyway. “Starvation and anarchy in our cities. Chaos and banditry in the countryside. Our farmers hoarding needed food. Our factories idled and rusting away.”
“All problems we’ve faced before and survived, Yuri. What precisely is your point?”
“Teeter on the brink long enough, Mr. President, and eventually you’re bound to fall in.” Kaminov leaned forward in his chair. “Things are different this year. For a start, we won’t be getting much more emergency aid from the French or the Germans, and certainly not from the Americans. They’ve got too many problems of their own to do much for us. True?”
“True.” The President looked troubled. “I’ve spoken to them all. They’re polite enough, God knows, but also empty-handed.”
“Just so.” Kaminov seemed satisfied by the other man’s admission. “So we can’t beg our way out of these troubles any longer. We must maintain order with our own resources. With all the forces at the state’s disposal.”
He rapped the desk to hammer home his point. “And yet those forces are falling apart before our very eyes.” He glanced at Soloviev. “You have those reports, Colonel?”
Soloviev silently opened his briefcase and handed a thick sheaf of papers to his superior.
Kaminov fanned them out across the desk. “Look at these! Police strikes in St. Petersburg, Volgograd, and Yekaterinburg. Mutinies for higher pay in two motor rifle divisions! Officers murdered by their own men in half a dozen more units!”
The President brushed the papers back toward the marshal. “I’ve seen the reports, Yuri.”
Kaminov glowered back at him. “Then you must also realize the need to regain full control over the security forces. And over the railroads and other transportation networks. For our country to survive the coming winter we must take strong action. Action unencumbered by absurd legal niceties.” He paused briefly to let that sink in and then went on. “That is why we insist that you declare an immediate state of emergency.”
“We, Marshal Kaminov? You and the colonel here? Or are there others supporting this…” The President fumbled for a neutral term. “This
The marshal nodded grimly. “There are others. Many others.” He slid a single-page document across the desk. “You’ll find this document interesting reading, Mr. President. It contains an outline of the measures you must take to maintain order over the next several months. All you have to do is sign it.”
Soloviev watched the President scan the sheet of paper, racing through its bland phrases for brutal deeds with growing anger. The older man’s hands were shaking by the time he reached the end. A dozen high-ranking officers had already signed at the bottom, including all five commanders in chief of Russia’s armed forces. Kaminov’s preparations had been thorough.
The President finished reading and looked up. When he spoke, his voice was flat, carefully devoid of any emotion. “And if I don’t approve this plan? If I refuse to declare martial law?”
Kaminov sat back, clearly confident. “Then I would have to remind you that my loyalties to Mother Russia supersede those to any individual, Mr. President.”
“I see.” The President’s face darkened. He’d forgotten a basic lesson of power politics. Not all coup d’etats were signaled by tanks in the streets. Some were far more subtle. He sighed. The generals had left him with only one real, survivable choice. More important still, he had little doubt that they’d correctly read the public mood. The people were weary of chaos and disorder. They were ready to follow the men on horseback. He reached for a pen.
For the time being at least, Russia’s fragile experiment with democracy was coming to an end.
Pavel Sorokin looked like he’d been losing weight in a hurry. He also looked worried and more than a little frightened.
“Nikolai! Good! You’re finally here.” The bureaucrat forced a lopsided smile as Banich ambled out of the elevator, passing between two unsmiling air force majors who were waiting to get on. “I was afraid you might be late.”
Banich looked at him curiously. Sorokin had never struck him as being either particularly energetic or a stickler for protocol. Something odd was going on. Something connected with this ridiculous last-minute demand for more deliveries to army installations around Moscow? It seemed likely. “Well, I’m not. What’s up?”
The Russian shook his head. “There’s no time for that now, Nikolai.” He glanced quickly down at his watch and bit his lip. “Come on, there’s someone you have to meet.”
Still curious, Banich followed the fat man at a fast walk down the hall. They were moving through parts of the Defense Ministry he’d never seen before. Paintings depicting famous Russian battles hung at regular intervals along the hallway, and high-ranking officers bustled in and out of busy offices. All the uniforms and gold braid made the CIA agent acutely aware that he and the supply manager were the only civilians in sight.
“This way.” Sorokin led him into an office near the end of the corridor.
Inside the room, a desk topped by a small personal computer and two telephones guarded the doorway to yet another office. A fresh-faced army lieutenant occupied the chair behind the desk. Other, older officers from different service branches filled chairs lining the walls, each obviously waiting his turn for an appointment.
Sorokin approached the lieutenant with surprising deference. “Excuse me, sir. Could you please tell the colonel that we’re here? Pavel Sorokin and Nikolai Ushenko? He wanted to see us.”
The lieutenant eyed him suspiciously, checked his watch and a thick, leather-bound appointment book, and
