to be as totally obnoxious about things as they would be. Otherwise they get suspicious.”
The agent explained that they had made the operation look like a rival
“Plus we wanted to get rid of the part from our airplane,” added Karr.
“Was it your airplane?” Dean asked.
“Looks like it.”
“Now what do we do?”
“See, they found the wreckage and scavenged the engines,” Karr explained. “But they also brought along a little piece of the tail with some Russian serial numbers. The Art Room will check it out, but in the meantime we’re going to go to the place where they found it and see if anything else is left.”
“Why didn’t we go there in the first place?” Dean asked.
“Not my call,” said Karr. “But I assume they had it under surveillance, saw that these guys took something, and wanted to find out what it was. It was the motors, right, Lia? I mean, you do know the difference between motors and wings.”
“Oh, har-har.”
“If you hadn’t taken out the guards, we might have just snuck out,” Karr told Dean. “But that kind of committed us. Better to blow all the shit up anyway. Plus I can’t resist using the Russian bazooka. What’d you think of the pyro shit at the gas tanks? Wasn’t that cool?”
“If I hadn’t taken them out they would have killed you,” said Dean.
“Water over the dam now.”
“Wait a second. You’re criticizing me for bailing you out? I saved your butts.”
“I’m not criticizing you, Charlie,” said Karr. He sounded almost hurt.
“We almost got killed. Your high-tech gear isn’t worth shit,” said Dean. He began surveying his body to see if any of the various aches and pains he felt were serious wounds. “And your plan sucked.”
“Oh, please,” said Lia.
“Well, the support team didn’t cover itself with glory,” said Karr. “I’ll give you that. But we weren’t almost killed.”
“You got ambushed. If I wasn’t there, you’d be dead.”
“If you weren’t there, we would’ve done it differently.”
“I suppose the Marines have a better way,” said Lia.
“A Marine operation would have had more people.”
“And less dogs,” said Karr brightly.
“Yeah. Your high-tech gizmos were outsmarted by dogs,” said Dean. “Shit.”
“Nobody in the Art Room has pets. That’s the problem,” said Karr, stepping on the accelerator.
16
Alexsandr Kurakin nodded as his adviser continued, talking about how Kurakin might refine his image for the coming elections. American-style election consultants with their polls and slick advertising styles had been mandatory since the 1990s; Kurakin himself had first used the consultants to win election to the state parliament. But there was a great deal of witchcraft involved, and he trusted these men even less than he did the parliament.
“Your popularity in the countryside remains strong,” said the consultant, whom Kurakin privately referred to as Boris Americanski. The man gestured toward the chart he had projected on the wall, the gold of his pinkie ring catching a glint. He talked like an American consultant, but he dressed like a Russian gangster. Kurakin hated both, though necessity at times demanded they be used.
More and more he found himself a prisoner of necessity. Not since the breakup of the Soviet Union had Russia been so ungovernable, so at odds with itself. By any economic measure, by any social indicator, it was in chaos. The future promised by the democratic reformers had proven to be the stuff of a child’s fairy tale. No, crueler — a parent’s promise of a plentiful Christmas when foreclosure loomed instead.
Kurakin felt the bitterness more deeply than most of the people he governed. He himself had been one of the reformers; many of the now-empty promises had emanated from his own mouth.
He had been a true believer. He trusted in the people and the system to bring a better life to ordinary Russians — to his parents and brother still living in the east beyond the Urals and still, by any definition, ordinary Russians.
The president strode around the room as the consultant continued to speak. Some months ago Kurakin had moved his offices from the Senate to the Arsenal as a security measure. His quarters were cramped, altogether inadequate, but the move had been necessary. It was, to him, an important symbolic concession to reality, and to the course that he knew he must pursue.
Kurakin had lost faith, not in the people, not in the future, but in the system. Democracy did not work, at least not here. Special interests blocked true reform. Graft and corruption diverted energy and resources from where they were needed. Old hatreds — some even dating from Stalin’s day! — poisoned the legislature. Rivalries in the military drained morale. He saw and understood everything, and it was his responsibility as president to fix it.
He would do so, but with his own methods. In parliament, a bill suggesting that the sun rose in the morning would not make it to the floor for a vote if it was whispered that he supported it.
The rebels in the south were an even more enduring and obstinate irritation. But he could not deal with them forcefully, as Putin had dealt with Chechnya, because of the Americans.
Indeed, Kurakin felt checked at every point by the U.S. The American president professed to like him — Kurakin kept his own opinion of the man well hidden — yet blocked Russia from taking its proper place as partner in NATO or the Middle East. More critically, the Americans threatened to call in their loans and end a long list of programs if Russia punished China for aiding the southern rebels or dealt too severely with the rebels themselves. The Americans had recently taken to monitoring the Kazakhstan border. It was a particularly egregious slap, considering how Russia had assisted the U.S. in its war against the Islamic militants in Afghanistan.
“The good news is, no other likely opponent polls higher than fifteen percent,” said Boris, who’d been droning on, oblivious to the president’s disinterest.
“The bad news is, I poll fourteen,” said Kurakin dryly.
“It’s not quite that bad.”
“I still have my sense of humor,” the president told the consultant. His approval hovered between 35 and 43 percent and had since the election.
“Historically, it’s not bad. Look at Yeltsin. Russians love to hate their leaders.”
Yes, thought Kurakin, unless they give the people a reason to hate them. In that case they love them.
The phone on Kurakin’s desk buzzed. His appointments secretary was trying to keep him on schedule; his 7:15 A.M. appointment had already been waiting ten minutes.
“Our time is up,” Kurakin told Boris abruptly. “Your check will be sent.”
The consultant gave him an odd look.
“Yes, I’m terminating the contract,” Kurakin said. “I’ve decided to go in another direction.”
“You haven’t hired one of the German firms, have you?”
“I’m not going to work with a consultant,” said the president. “I’m going to handle things on my own.”
Boris clearly didn’t believe him, but there was little else for him to say. He shrugged and was still standing by the door when the president’s next appointment was ushered in.
17
