Cauldron

CHAPTER 6 Purge

Moscow’s gray morning skies mirrored Alex Banich’s mood as he crossed the open ground between the embassy’s living quarters and the red brick chancery building. Nightly frosts, scattered snow showers, and weeks of freezing rains had turned the compound lawn into a brown, withered quagmire. The city’s fall and winter months were always bleak and barren, but this year the weather was the worst in recent memory.

Somehow that seemed appropriate.

In the weeks since Len Kutner had given him Langley’s new list of intelligence priorities, Banich and his team of field operatives had been working overtime to make the new contacts they needed — with very little measurable success. It took time and a great deal of effort to find the right kind of Russian trade bureaucrats and corporate officers: the kind who could be bought. Even then, every new “recruiting” approach, however subtle, piled risk atop risk. They never knew who might get cold feet at the last minute or suddenly turn into an outraged patriot. And no matter how careful Banich and his agents were, the arrest of any one of them would help the FIS unravel their whole, painstakingly constructed network.

To make matters even worse, the Agency’s Kiev-based cover company was having trouble acquiring the foodstuffs it sold. Crop yields in Ukraine and the other republics had been dismal. That was partly a product of the year’s freak weather and partly because the Commonwealth’s farms and transportation networks were still half-mired in socialist sloth. Breaking the bad economic habits built up over seventy years was proving an almost impossible task. Too much grain still rotted in unharvested fields and too much beef and pork spoiled in railroad cars left sitting on isolated side spurs.

The chronic supply shortages were starting to put a crimp in the CIA’s Moscow operations. Profits from food sales covered a lot of the network’s day-to-day expenses: bribes, safe-house rents, and the like. Even more important, having food to sell gave Banich and his agents power and the freedom to wheel and deal almost at will inside the Russian Republic’s governing circles. The capital’s generals, bureaucrats, and politicians were willing to overlook a lot for those who could put hot food on their plates.

Banich was tempted to make up the shortfall with imports from overseas, but he’d been fighting the temptation. Except for its original funding — ostensibly from a wealthy, expatriate Ukrainian — almost everything about the New Kiev Trading Company was exactly as it appeared to be. Ukrainian buyers bought Ukrainian products with Ukrainian money and then resold them for a profit to Russians, Belarussians, Armenians, and others. Going abroad for food would only increase the odds of Russia’s counterintelligence service poking its nose into the company’s lucrative and door-opening business.

Instead, it might be better to send Hennessy and some of the others down south to see if they could shake more food loose from tightfisted farmers or other hoarders. Of course, doing that would leave him even more short-handed here. Despite Kutner’s best efforts, Langley had refused every request for more personnel. Apparently Congress was busy again, cutting the defense and intelligence budgets to fund extra unemployment insurance and federal make-work programs. Idiots.

He entered the chancery through the rear door, signed in with a brisk nod to the marine sergeant on desk duty, and took the stairs to the sixth floor. Most embassy staffers rode the elevators from floor to floor. Climbing the stairs was one of the ways he dodged the mix of inbred speculation and gossip that passed for conversation in this isolated diplomatic posting. Besides, he thought, it helped him stay in shape.

Banich shook his head at that. Rationalizing wouldn’t get him anywhere. The truth was that his temper was so short right now, he’d have scaled the chancery’s outside walls to avoid unnecessary contact with the embassy’s regular staff. Days filled with too much work and nights with too little sleep were starting to take a serious toll on both his endurance and his good humor.

Coming in early paid off. The corridors and cubicles on the way to his office were still empty. Then he stopped, frowning at the pink message sheet taped to his door. Len Kutner wanted to see him again — in his office this time.

The chief of station wasn’t alone. A young woman sat comfortably in the chair facing his desk. “Alex, come on in. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Kutner stood up, an action imitated by his visitor. “Miss McKenna, this is Alex Banich, my senior field agent. He’s the man you’ll be working with for the next several months.” He nodded toward her. “Alex, meet Erin McKenna. She’s been assigned to us as a trade intelligence expert.”

Banich studied the woman with greater interest. She was taller than he’d first thought, with long legs and a slender, almost boyish figure. A mass of auburn hair framed her face. He was suddenly aware that she was studying him just as intently, frank curiosity clear in her bright green eyes. For some reason it was an uncomfortable sensation. He wished he’d shaved closer that morning.

With an effort he focused on more important matters. Now that the Agency’s stateside, penny-pinching paper pushers had finally answered his request for more personnel, he’d better find out just what he had to work with. Starting with her background. Was she an agent or just an analyst? He smiled politely. “Glad you’re here, Miss McKenna. Where’d you work at Langley? Intel or ops?”

She shook her head. “Neither. I’m not with the CIA, Mr. Banich.”

What?

Kutner cleared his throat. “That’s right, Alex. Miss McKenna works for the Commerce Department.”

“For the Office of Export Enforcement. Specifically the intelligence division.”

Banich felt himself starting to frown. A civilian. They’d sent him a goddamned civilian. And probably one with dreams of being some kind of female James Bond. Just fucking great.

“Do you speak Russian?” He spoke rapidly, the way a real Muscovite would.

“I’m fairly fluent. Enough to handle most conversations.” She answered him in the same language and then switched back to English. “I’ve also got a pretty good grasp of French and German.” She smiled thinly. “I even know enough Italian to read menus.”

The frown stayed on his face. Her vocabulary was good, but that accent would mark her as a foreigner no matter where she went inside the Commonwealth. Time to nip this thing in the bud and bundle her back to Washington where she belonged. He turned to Kutner. “I can’t use her, Len. Not out on the streets. I need trained field personnel.”

He had an instant feeling he’d been too blunt for his own good. He was right.

Erin McKenna’s eyes flashed fire at him. “Look, Mr. Banich, I’ve read the memos and message traffic from this station. All you’ve been doing is bitching about the new emphasis on trade intelligence. Well, that’s why I’m here.” She took a step closer. “I’ve got the knowledge and the experience to analyze the raw data you and your people collect. I can help point you in the right direction and call you off false scents. I am not here to play covert-action cowboys and Indians. Got it?”

Banich had the momentary feeling that he’d stuck his head into a buzz saw. He tried changing tack. “It’s not personal, Miss McKenna. It’s just that we’ve been pushing hard to get this crap… this information… Washington wants, and — ”

She interrupted him icily. “This crap, as you call it, happens to be considered vital by the people we both work for. You have some kind of problem with that?”

Banich picked up the verbal gauntlet she’d thrown down. “Yeah, I do. While we’re busy tracking down garbage like who bribed who to get some frigging import license, we’re losing track of other things. Like who’s really got control of the Russian military. Or what kinds of weapons they’re putting into production.”

Her voice was scathing. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but the cold war’s been over for six years now, Mr. Banich. We’re in a new kind of war now. One that’s being fought with weapons like imports and exports, subsidies and tariffs. Maybe you ought to wake up and get with the program before the next century arrives.”

“Subsidies don’t kill people and conquer countries. Tanks and missiles do. Maybe you should remember that — ”

“There, there, children.” Kutner broke in, not even bothering to hide his amusement now. “No more fighting. You’re both stuck with each other no matter how much you squawk.”

Banich saw McKenna roll her eyes upward in disgust at the situation. He nodded to himself. At least they could agree on that much. And maybe he really could find some use for her. At least until he could convince somebody higher up the ladder to pull the plug on this half-assed idea. Besides, coping with all the red tape Washington tossed their way might even cool her down. He turned back to Kutner. “All right, I give. She’s on the team. For now.”

“Thank you so much, O Tsar of all the Russias.”

Ouch. Sarcasm, too. And in textbook Russian. He sighed. “What kind of cover did Langley give her? What’s her embassy rank?”

The chief of station’s toothy grin grew even wider. “That’s another reason to be nice to her, Alex. On the books, Miss McKenna’s a deputy economic attaché. Your boss.”

Banich felt a headache coming on fast. This was not starting out to be one of his better days.

Lieutenant Vladimir Chuikov staggered upright as the train slowed abruptly, air brakes squealing over the roar of its diesel engine as it shuddered and slid to a stop. He stuck his head out a nearby window, his breath steaming in the ice-cold air. Why had they stopped?

Nothing he could see answered that question. They were on a siding off the main track, deep inside a forest of birch, fir, and pine. A rutted dirt track paralleled the tracks for several hundred meters before vanishing among the trees. Shadows and tangled undergrowth made it impossible to see very far into the still, silent forest. He shivered. In the stories his grandmother used to tell, woods like these were always the haunt of ghosts and evil witches.

Chuikov yanked his head back inside the passenger compartment.

“Trouble, sir?” The bandy-legged little sergeant who was second-in-command of the train guard detail was on his feet, one hand on the Makarov 9mm automatic at his belt. Most of the other soldiers were still sleeping, propped up on the car’s hard wood benches. One or two were awake and had their Kalashnikov assault rifles close by.

“Maybe.” Chuikov moved toward a wall phone. He picked it up and jiggled the hook. The men driving the train should have some answers.

“Chief engineer.”

“This is Lieutenant Chuikov. What’s going on up there?”

“Who can say? Central routed us off onto this spur and now we’ve got a stop signal showing. Perhaps there’s a snarl up ahead… or they need the tracks for higher-priority traffic.”

Chuikov could practically hear the trainman’s uninterested shrug. Of course, he thought angrily, these lazy swine were being paid by the hour, not the trip. Delays put rubles in their pockets. That wasn’t all. The man was starting to slur his words together. They were drinking up there. “I’m coming forward.”

“Suit yourself, Lieutenant.” The engineer yawned noisily. “But we’re likely to be stuck here a long while. You’ll stay warmer inside.”

The young army officer hung up without offering any parting pleasantry. Sod the buggers. In the old days, they’d have shown more respect. He glanced at his sergeant. “Some kind of traffic foul-up. Stay here. You’re in charge until I get back.”

“Want me to wake the boys up?”

Chuikov shook his head. “No point in that right now. But we’ll post some sentries if we’re going to be here much longer.”

He went through the forward door of the passenger car onto the platform between it and the freight car ahead. His teeth were already chattering. Mother of God, the trainman had been right. It felt cold enough to freeze fire.

The lieutenant dropped down onto the railroad roadbed, swearing as his brand-new boots sank into a mix of gravel and half-frozen mud. He looked both ways, scanning the length of the freight train. Everything seemed all right — from the single rust-stained diesel engine at the front to the caboose at the back. In between were twenty freight cars full of food and military hardware and the lone passenger car carrying his ten-man guard unit.

Chuikov understood his orders to protect this shipment from St. Petersburg’s supply center to the army garrisons near the capital. In a land racked by growing shortages and ethnic violence, small arms, ammunition, light antitank weapons, and luxury goods were worth their weight in gold. Still, he was more worried about the danger posed by thieving cargo handlers at the Moscow freight yard. Lone trucks often vanished somewhere on the highway between the two cities — easy prey for bandits and black marketeers who were growing bolder. But trains were a different matter.

He started slogging his way toward the engine, increasingly irritated at this unforeseen delay. He’d wanted to be in Moscow before nightfall. Darkness would only make it easier for workers at the yard to “lose” valuable crates.

His irritation turned to open anger when he swung himself up and into the engine’s crew compartment. The two trainmen manning the big diesel were both bundled up against the cold, and both were well on the way to being blind drunk.

“Hey, General! Welcome aboard!” The bigger of the two men waved a flask at him. “Want a snort? Only the finest for one of our motherland’s brave defenders, eh?”

Chuikov wrinkled his nose in disgust. The stuff smelled more like brake fluid than vodka. He scowled. “Get that out of my face!”

The big engineer pouted. “All right. All right. No need to get stuffy. Right, Andrei?”

His coworker nodded once or twice, already so glassy-eyed that Chuikov wasn’t sure he’d even understood what the big man had said.

“What the hell are you two playing at? Pull yourselves together, damn it!” The lieutenant brushed past both drunks. “Where’s your radio?”

The first trainman pointed with his flask, sloshing liquid out onto the steel floor. Chuikov glanced at the boxy wireless set. Its dials were dark. Idiots! They’d switched it off. What the devil was happening around here?

His speculations were cut short by a sharp buzz from the intercom phone. He picked it up. “Chuikov.”

It was his sergeant. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. But we have company. Vehicles moving up the road.”

“On my way.” Chuikov dropped the phone, feeling more and more bewildered. It was just one damned thing after another on this trip. He pushed past the two engineers again on his way outside. “Get this train ready to move. And turn that bloody radio back on!”

His first fears were soothed by the sight of an army jeep leading a long column of canvas-sided URAL trucks up the muddy track. Maybe competent higher authorities were bringing some order out of this sudden chaos. He hurried toward the jeep, slipping and sliding down the embankment onto the dirt road.

“Lieutenant Chuikov, train guard commander, reporting.” He snapped a salute to the captain riding in the jeep’s backseat. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” The captain returned his salute, stood up, and hopped out onto the road, landing lightly on his feet. He was a tall man with a narrow face and a thin-lipped, cruel mouth. “Danilov. 55th Motor Rifles. I take it the dispatchers passed on our warning?”

Puzzled, Chuikov shook his head. “No, sir. Not a word.”

The captain muttered a curse under his breath. Then he calmed down. “One of my patrols spotted some suspicious activity about ten kilometers down the main line. Bandits, I think. We’ve been hearing rumors that some of the local criminal gangs were gathering for a big hit. This train could be it.”

Chuikov sucked his breath in, amazed. “So some of these sneak thieves really have the balls to take the army on?”

Danilov seemed amused. He smiled dryly. “So it appears, Lieutenant.” Then he turned serious. “Your men are all in that passenger car?”

The young army officer nodded.

“Excellent.” Danilov lifted a silver command whistle to his lips and blew three short, sharp, loud notes.

Before the whistle blasts faded, men began boiling out of the first three trucks. All were armed. But none were in uniform. Instead, they were clothed in a motley assortment of leather jackets, jeans, and cloth caps. Some were bearded, others clean-shaven. In seconds most of them were fanning out along the length of the train while one group of ten or so scrambled up the embankment toward the passenger car.

For what seemed an eternity Chuikov stood rooted in shock. Then he fumbled with the flap of his holster, trying desperately to free his service automatic.

“I wouldn’t do that, young sir.” Danilov’s quiet voice was accompanied by a soft click.

“I can assure you it would be a fatal mistake.”

Chuikov turned slowly. The taller man already had his own pistol out and it was pointed straight at him. My God. He raised his arms above his head, careful to keep his palms out and open.

The crackling rattle of an AK-74 burst broke the silence. Both men swung round to face the passenger car. The bandits who’d been charging forward were down, in cover beneath the boxcars to either side or lying prone near the tracks with their rifles aimed and ready to fire.

Seconds dragged by, each one seeming longer than the last.

Suddenly Chuikov’s sergeant appeared on the platform between the two cars. He was lugging a bloody corpse wearing army brown. “Hey, don’t shoot, you bastards. It’s only me, Vanya!” He threw the dead man off the train and straightened up. Then he unslung his AK-74 and patted the assault rifle’s folding metal stock fondly. “Unfortunately Private Kaminsky just tried to become a hero of the republic! Maybe they’ll bury him with a medal, eh?”

The bandits laughed.

Danilov seemed to relax. He waved one gloved hand toward the sergeant. “Vanya, you old son-of-a-bitch! For a second there you scared the shit out of me!”

The bandy-legged little man grinned from ear to ear, jumped down to the tracks, and came over to them. “So sorry, Comrade Danilov.” He nodded toward Chuikov. “I see you’ve already met my gallant leader.”

“Indeed. He’s been the perfect gentleman. A rare credit to our glorious armed forces.” Danilov holstered his pistol. “Well, I’d better get the lads to work. We’ve got a lot to unload and not a lot of time to do it in.”

“You won’t…” Chuikov choked off the rest of his sentence.

“Won’t what, my dear fellow?” Danilov asked politely. “Get away with it?” He smiled again. “Of course we will. By the time anyone realizes this train hasn’t just suffered a routine breakdown, my friends and I and the goods you’ve been guarding so efficiently will be halfway to Moscow. And Moscow is a very big city. You’d be surprised at how easy it is for people and merchandise to disappear there.”

The bandit chief glanced down at the bandy-legged sergeant. “Look after the lieutenant, Vanya.” Something bleak and cold appeared in his eyes. “Take care of him for me, won’t you?” He strode off toward the waiting line of trucks.

“Why, Sergeant? Why?” Chuikov asked bitterly.

“Money, why else?” The sergeant laughed, a harsh, braying sound. “My cut of this one job will be worth a year’s pay. And I don’t have to kiss any ass wearing an officer’s shoulder straps to get it, either.”

There wasn’t any good answer to that.

Chuikov watched his surviving troops being herded out of the passenger car at gunpoint. They stumbled down the embankment, hands clasped to their heads, pale with shock and shame. He could feel his own anger growing. By God, he’d make sure these bandits didn’t escape justice. He’d help the military police hunt Danilov and this bastard sergeant down wherever they tried to hide. Their smirking faces were burned into his memory.

Their faces… Chuikov suddenly shivered. They’d let him see their faces.

The little sergeant read his mind. “That’s right, Lieutenant. This is as far as you’re going.” He raised the assault rifle he’d been cradling so casually.

Chuikov whirled in a panic, running for the forest.

The other man let him get just ten feet before he fired.

Three burning hammerblows threw Chuikov facedown into the mud. His fingers scrabbled vainly in the dirt as he struggled to lever himself upright, trying desperately to breathe. He was still gasping when a final crashing blow sent him spiraling down into darkness.

One hundred and fifty miles northeast of Moscow, the mighty Volga River meandered past Yaroslavl’s domed churches and silent smokestacks. Pollution-stained chunks of ice swirled southward with the current — visible signs of a winter arriving weeks before its normal time. Patches of black ice and sudden, blinding snowstorms were already making travel along the Moscow highway a dangerous and uncertain enterprise.

There were other signs of trouble in Yaroslavl.

The line of weary men, women, and children clutching empty shopping bags wound past all the Government Milk Store’s bare shelves and stretched far out into the main city square. Dour workers in stained white smocks and hair nets stood behind a wooden counter at one end of the store, dispensing small ration packets of powdered milk and moldy cheese at a glacial pace.

The tired faces of those at the front of the line tightened as a worried-looking worker emerged from the store’s back room and went into a whispered conference with the store’s portly, bearded manager. Just to get this far, they’d already been shuffling forward an inch or two at a time for hours. Supplies of even the most basic goods were running low as the oddly early winter closed its icy grasp around the city.

“Friends, friends! Please listen to me!” The manager waved his hands, seeking their attention. “I have a most unfortunate announcement to make.”

He shook his head sorrowfully. “Because of unexpectedly high demand, our stocks have fallen below emergency reserve levels. Accordingly, I am forced to close this store until new supplies arrive… perhaps tomorrow.”

Muttered curses rose from the waiting crowd. Some of the younger children, frightened by their parents’ anger, began crying.

One of the men closest to the counter, a big ironworker, stepped out of line and glared at the manager. “Stuff this ‘emergency reserve’ garbage! You’ve got milk and cheese left back there. Now, start handing it out!”

“I’d like to oblige you, friend. Honestly, I would.” The manager’s plump fingers plucked nervously at his beard. “But regulations require me to keep — ”

“Regulations, hell!” an angry voice shouted from near the back. “These bastards are hoarding the milk for themselves!”

Others in the crowd growled their agreement with that outraged assessment. They began pushing and shoving their way forward. A rack of empty shelves toppled over with a thunderous crash.

The manager paled and backed away from his counter. “Hold on! Hold on, friends! Don’t make this a police matter.”

Jeers greeted his plea. “Fat pig! Bloodsucker! Exploiter!”

Led by the big ironworker, shouting men and women climbed over the counter, urged on by those behind them. Others even further back began smashing the store’s plate-glass windows, hurling shelves and signs they’d torn down out onto the pavement. Some started chanting, “Food! Food! Food! We want food!”

As the crowd surged over the counter several clerks tried to block the stockroom door with their bodies. That was a mistake. In seconds, heated words turned to violent acts. The clerks went down under a sudden barrage of flying fists and boots. Pieces of wood torn from splintered shelves and now used as clubs rose and fell, thudding into skulls and smashing ribs. Blood stained the store’s tile floor and splattered across its yellowing white walls.

Shaking with fear, the milk store manager turned to flee. But powerful hands dug into his plump shoulders and yanked him backward.

“No, pig. You don’t get away so easily!” The ironworker’s face was a hate-filled mask.

The manager screamed in terror. He was still screaming when the big man hurled him into the midst of the howling mob.

The big black ZIL limousine swept past the guards manning the Borovitskaya Tower gate without stopping. Command flags flying from its hood identified the car, and no soldier with any sense delayed Marshal Yuri Kaminov on his way to a meeting with the Russian Republic’s President. Plenty of the dirt-poor and isolated border outposts near Kazakhstan were full of officers and men who’d done something to annoy the notoriously bad-tempered chief of the general staff.

Gearshift grinding, the ZIL followed the steeply rising road, roaring uphill past the elegant nineteenth-century façade of the State Armory building and into the main Kremlin compound. Still moving at high speed, the black limousine flashed past the domed palaces, cathedrals, the old headquarters of the Supreme Soviet, and the Russian Senate building. Flocks of startled birds and well-dressed bureaucrats scattered out of its path.

Kaminov’s staff car stopped in front of the massive yellow brick Arsenal — once an army museum and now used as an office building by the President and his advisors. The driver, a young sergeant in full dress uniform, climbed out quickly and opened the rear driver’s-side door. Then he stiffened to rigid attention, still holding the door open.

The marshal, stocky and squarely built with a rough-hewn peasant’s face, nodded to the young man as he emerged from the ZIL. “Wait here, Ivanovskiy. I won’t be inside long.”

“Yes, sir.”

Another officer followed the marshal out of the limousine. The three stars on Valentin Soloviev’s shoulder boards identified him as a full colonel in the Russian Army. Everything else about him, from his straw-colored hair, ice-cold gray eyes, and high, aristocratic cheekbones down to his immaculately tailored uniform and brightly polished boots, seemed to separate him from the older, plainer Kaminov.

A waiting functionary hurried forward from inside the Arsenal. “The President is ready to see you, Marshal. In his private office, as you requested.”

“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 proposal of yours?”

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’états 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 then lifted one of the phones. “Colonel? The supply manager and the merchant you wanted are here.” He listened to the reply, put the phone down, and nodded toward the door. “Go on.”

Banich went through the door feeling warier than he had for a long while. Maybe he’d grown too used to manipulating puffed-up, greedy administrators like Sorokin. Something told him he was moving into a very different league right now. A much more dangerous league.

His first glimpse of the man waiting for them confirmed that. The pressures he’d used to bend Sorokin to his will wouldn’t mean spit to this grim-looking bastard.

“You are the Ukrainian commodities trader, Ushenko?” The colonel’s arrogant tone left little doubt that he expected an answer and expected it immediately. He stayed seated as they came to a halt in front of his desk.

“Yes, I am.” Banich made a split-second decision and kept his own tone light, almost airily unconcerned. He had to stay in character, and as Ushenko he’d never given a damn about rank or power. “And who the devil are you?”

He heard Sorokin draw a quick, nervous breath.

The army officer studied him for a moment with cold gray eyes that looked out from under pale, almost invisible eyebrows. He seemed almost amused. “My name is Colonel Valentin Soloviev, Mr. Ushenko.”

“And just what can I do for you, Colonel?” Banich glanced to either side, looking for a chair to sit down in. There weren’t any.

“You can start by explaining this.” Soloviev handed him a piece of paper.

Banich recognized the New Kiev Trading Company’s letterhead. It was his own politely worded notification that the company could not sell additional food supplies to the Ministry of Defense. He looked up. “I don’t see that there’s anything to explain. You can’t get milk from a dry cow, and I can’t obtain the goods you’re looking for. Certainly not in those quantities. And certainly not at those prices.”

Pavel Sorokin was sweating now. He mopped his brow and laughed weakly. “Nikolai! Surely you don’t mean that. You’ve always come through for us in the past and…”

Soloviev cut him off with a single irritated glance. Then he turned his attention back to Banich. “It would be most unwise to try bargaining with me, Mr. Ushenko. I can promise that you would not find it a profitable experience.”

“Look, Colonel, I’m not interested in haggling with you.” Banich shrugged. “But you’re asking for the impossible. There’s simply not that much food readily available. Not this winter.”

“I am acquainted with both the market conditions and the weather, Ushenko.” The Russian army officer frowned. “Let me make myself even clearer. We need these extra supplies. We need them delivered over the next several days. And I will obtain them by any means necessary.”

Banich didn’t try to conceal his confusion. “But why the big rush? Why the need for so much so soon? Why not wait for the spring? Supplies will be up and prices down by March or April, at the latest.”

“Because we don’t have until the spring!” The colonel’s eyes flashed angrily. He paused. When he spoke again, he sounded like he was rattling off a prepared statement — one that he wasn’t especially interested in. “The government has scheduled an emergency exercise to test its ability to keep order during the coming months. Our part of this readiness exercise involves the rapid rail movement of an additional division to the capital from one of the outlying districts. Once here, the troops will take part in maneuvers designed to evaluate their ability to reinforce the police should the need arise.”

Soloviev smiled wryly. “Given the current situation, I’m sure you can understand my reluctance to dump thousands of half-starved soldiers on the streets of Moscow. If nothing else, it would mean the end of a career I rather enjoy.”

Banich felt his brain moving into high gear. Readiness exercise, hell! Nobody, especially not the near-bankrupt Russian government, moved ten to fifteen thousand soldiers around on a whim or for some half-assed riot control practice. The military brass were up to something, all right. He wondered whether any of the republic’s political leaders knew what it was.

In the meantime, he’d better find a way to meet the army’s demands. Getting shut out now would mean losing a crucial inside track to information on military planning and personnel. He spread his hands in resignation. “Okay, Colonel, you’ve made your point. I’ll see what I can do.”

Beside him, Pavel Sorokin breathed a huge sigh of not-so-silent relief. It was short-lived.

“But the price per ton has to come up. I can’t swing the deal for what you’re offering.”

“No haggling, Ushenko. Remember? You’ll meet our needs and our price, or I’ll make sure you lose your licenses for doing business inside this republic. Clear enough?”

“Yes.” Banich grimaced. “And just how in God’s name am I supposed to explain this to my bosses? Doing business at a loss, I mean.”

“Simple.” Soloviev smiled again, looking more than ever like a tiger toying with its prey. “Tell them that you’re buying my continued goodwill.” He nodded toward the door in an abrupt dismissal.

In the first hour after sunrise, Russia’s capital city lay wrapped in a deep, deceptively peaceful silence.

Erin McKenna ran southward beside the gray-tinted Moskva River, long legs eating up distance with every easy stride. Her long auburn hair streamed out behind her, tied into a bobbing ponytail with a length of black ribbon. There weren’t any other people in sight. For the moment at least, she moved alone in splendid isolation.

She shook her head irritably as the watch on her wrist chimed suddenly in an unwelcome reminder. It was time to head back for the start of another working day. She turned left, circling deeper into Gorky Park.

Fallen leaves in rich autumn colors littered the park’s winding paths and lay heaped below bare-limbed trees. For the first time in weeks, the sky overhead was a deep cloudless blue, although temperatures still hovered near the freezing mark. Despite the pale sunshine, the tree-covered grounds were completely deserted. Few of Moscow’s hungry citizens had the time or physical energy for jogging during these hard times.

Erin hoped she would never find herself in the same state. Running recharged her mind. It helped her clear away the cobwebs accumulated by hours spent reading densely written reports or searching through packed computer data bases. It also gave her time to herself — time she’d always treasured. Time for her own thoughts, or time for her mind to go blank, absorbed by the comforting rhythm of her legs covering ground at high speed. She’d proven her ability and competitive edge by winning a string of long-distance medals in high school and college. Now she ran for pure pleasure.

Not that she’d had much pleasure lately.

So far her assignment to the CIA’s Moscow Station had been one big bust. Despite their best efforts, Banich’s field operatives were still only able to gather the information she needed in dribs and drabs — small nuggets of fact and fancy that were barely worth analyzing and not worth reporting back to Washington. Her own moves to make contacts in the city’s foreign business community were going somewhat better, but they were still painfully slow. She couldn’t push too hard without raising unnecessary suspicions among the businessmen and women who managed Western trade with Russia and the other Commonwealth republics.

And now both Alex Banich and Len Kutner were busy with some hush-hush project of their own. For the past two days, they’d been closeted together in one of the embassy’s secure sections — emerging only long enough to send coded reports to Washington or to grab a quick bite in the staff canteen. The field agents who’d been working with her were being sent away on other rushed assignments. Something big was happening. And they’d shut her out of whatever it was.

Just the thought of that made her angry. She was tired of being labeled an amateur, interfering busybody. Her security clearances were just as good as Banich’s, and it was past time that he and his people started treating her like a full partner. She frowned at her thoughts. Winning his respect wouldn’t be easy. Not when they could only seem to agree on two things. One was that Moscow was the capital of Russia. The other was that most politicians needed help to tie their own shoes.

Erin pushed down the beginnings of a smile as she considered that last point of agreement. She’d developed her own cynical attitude toward Washington’s pontificating power brokers during a stint as an analyst for the Senate Commerce Committee. Too many senators who preached about their devotion to equal rights by day tried to grope their female staffers by night. Fending off their unwanted advances had been far more difficult than doing her assigned work. She suspected that Banich’s disdain for politicians had a very different origin.

She came out of the park and turned north onto a stretch of pavement paralleling a wide, multilane avenue. Once known as Lenin Prospekt, the street had long since reverted to its prerevolutionary name — Kaluga Road. It was one of Moscow’s principal thoroughfares and usually one of its busiest. But not today.

Only a few cars and taxis zoomed down the deserted street, racing over the speed limit along a road normally choked with bumper-to-bumper traffic. That was strange. Maybe the gasoline shortages she’d been reading about in the newspapers were finally starting to pinch the capital. Or maybe the government’s underpaid workers were staging another wildcat strike.

The deep roar of diesel engines moving up the street behind her ripped those idle speculations to shreds.

Wheeled armored personnel carriers thundered past at high speed, rumbling northward toward the river, the Kremlin, and the two-level Grand Boulevard that ringed the city center. Soldiers armed with assault rifles rode standing up, scanning the buildings to either side through open roof hatches. Wolf whistles and leers drifted her way as they sped by.

“Hey, pretty lady! Need a real man?”

“Nice tits, baby!”

Erin flushed angrily but she kept running. She had to get back to the embassy and find out what the hell was happening. Whatever it was, the Russian Army was certainly out in force, she thought, counting vehicles as they rumbled past. She stopped counting at thirty.

The long armored column split up as it entered October Square. Some of the turreted APCs turned left or right along the Grand Boulevard. Others roared straight ahead, advancing toward the Kammenyj Bridge and the Kremlin. Three vehicles bringing up the rear slowed down and wheeled in line to block the Kaluga Road.

Troops tumbled out of the APCs, urged on by shrill blasts from a high-pitched command whistle. Several took up firing positions near the entrance to the Hotel Warsaw while others trotted across the street. Still more men followed them, uncoiling twisted, razor-sharp strands of concertina wire.

Despite herself, Erin was impressed. These soldiers were putting together a very solid roadblock very quickly. Unfortunately they were also cutting her off from the nearest Metro station.

She slowed to a walk. Running headlong into a platoon of overexcited Russian infantrymen didn’t seem like a particularly good idea. Her hand slipped into the travel pack she wore around her waist, reaching for her passport and diplomatic identity card. With luck, they’d see that she wasn’t any threat and simply wave her through.

“Halt!”

Damn. She stopped, feeling her heartbeat starting to speed up. More than a dozen pairs of eyes and rifles were pointed in her direction.

The officer who’d yelled at her marched closer, backed by two of his soldiers. He had a narrow, arrogant face and he didn’t look friendly. Wonderful. She had the sinking feeling that getting past this checkpoint wasn’t going to be easy.

“You! Show me your papers! And be quick about it.” The officer snapped his fingers at her impatiently, but he seemed far more interested in studying her breasts. The two privates behind him were openly smirking.

“I’m an American diplomat. You have no authority over me.” Erin spoke carefully, in Russian, holding out the documents he’d demanded. “You see?”

The soldier snatched them out of her hand. “American, you say?” He stroked his chin with one hand, thumbed through her papers for a second, and then snorted. “But maybe these are forgeries, eh?”

Her temper flared. “Don’t be ridiculous! Now, cut the bullshit and let me pass!”

That was a mistake. She’d given this creep a perfect opening.

The Russian officer smiled lazily. “Perhaps you should learn to show more respect, woman.” He turned to the two privates behind him. “This so-called American could be a dangerous spy. Or a criminal. I think we should search her for concealed contraband. Thoroughly, eh?”

Both men nodded eagerly. One even licked his lips in anticipation.

Oh, God. Erin’s hands balled into fists. She glanced to either side, already knowing she had nowhere to run. All the soldiers manning the checkpoint had stopped to watch.

“Let’s go, bitch! We’ll see just what you’re carrying under that tight sweater of yours.” The officer spun on his heel, striding toward the nearest personnel carrier. He didn’t even bother to look back to see if she was following.

“Captain!” The sudden shout came from down the street, on the other side of the roadblock.

Erin could see a big black car pulling up to the barrier. It was a Lincoln Continental with diplomatic license plates. Her hands started trembling, this time in relief and not in fear. The cavalry had arrived. For the first time, she appreciated Banich’s earlier irritating insistence that she leave a detailed description of the route she planned to take whenever she signed out of the embassy compound. Her eyes narrowed in speculation. He had been standing by to pull her out of trouble. That could only mean that he and Kutner had had some advance warning of what was in the wind.

Erin frowned, still not sure whether she should! be touched by his readiness to rescue her, or irked that he’d kept her in the dark for so long.

One of the Lincoln’s rear doors popped open and Alex Banich climbed out, his face tight with anger as he took in the scene in front of him. Without stopping, he pushed through the knot of soldiers standing in his way, flashing his identity card from side to side as though it were some kind of religious talisman. He came to a halt right in front of the Russian captain.

“You’d better just be escorting Miss McKenna through your lines, Captain.” Banich slid the card into his jacket and put both hands on his hips. “If not, I can promise you one hell of a lot of trouble.”

“We were simply…”

“Don’t bother lying to me. I can guess what you were planning.” Banich glared up at the taller man, openly daring him to disagree.

The army officer scowled but kept his mouth shut. He’d obviously been looking forward to humiliating a lone American woman, not provoking a full-fledged diplomatic incident.

“Are you okay?”

Erin nodded, not trusting herself to speak yet. She’d be damned if she’d show these soldiers any more weaknesses than she already had.

“Good.” Banich reached out and took her papers out of the captain’s unresisting hand. “We’ve got a lot to get done today. As you may have gathered, the government’s declared martial law. So there’s no more time for screwing around with tin-pot, mincing morons like this guy.” He jerked a thumb at the Russian.

This time it was the captain who turned red with impotent rage. Erin smiled sweetly at him and followed Banich back to the waiting Lincoln. Inside she was busy trying to sort out a world that seemed suddenly turned upside down.

Before the Bolshevik Revolution, the circular stone platform called the Lobnoye Mesto, the Place of Skulls, had served as a site for public executions. Since the communists had preferred to carry out most of their murders in secret, the platform had fallen into disuse — becoming instead a place where tourists posed for pictures against the scenic backdrop provided by the old GUM department store and St. Basil’s Cathedral. Now, under Marshal Kaminov’s emergency decrees, the Place of Skulls was again a place for swift and sure punishments.

Several thousand people crowded Red Square, craning their heads for a better look at the raised platform. Excited murmurs swept through the waiting crowd as five blindfolded men were dragged down from a canvas-sided army truck and shoved up the stone steps. Their hands were tied behind their backs, and signs hung around their necks identified them as thieves and black market speculators.

Soldiers wearing heavy winter overcoats turned the blindfolded men around to face the square and forced them to kneel on the top step. When they were in place, five army officers marched smartly up the stairs and took their posts — one behind each kneeling prisoner.

“Citizens of Mother Russia!” a deep, harsh voice blared through the loudspeakers ringing the square. “For years these criminals have stolen bread from your mouths and profited by your miseries! But no more. No more. Now you will see justice done.”

Scattered clapping greeted this announcement, but most of those watching were silent.

“These men have been tried, convicted, and sentenced to death by the Special Military Tribunal for Moscow. Their appeals have been considered and rejected by the highest authorities.”

The people jamming the square stirred in confusion at that. Most of them were unsure of precisely who the “highest authorities” were right now. Although they’d seen the President’s televised speech declaring martial law, almost all public announcements since then had come from men in uniform.

With the republic’s newspapers, radio programs, and television news shows all operating under restrictive censorship decrees, reliable information was a rare and valuable commodity.

“Soldiers of the Russian Republic, are you ready to perform your sacred duty to the motherland?” The waiting army officers came to attention and then, one by one, nodded. “Very well. Proceed with the executions.”

Five pistol shots rang out one after the other, echoing off the massive stone buildings surrounding Red Square. Spilling bright red blood, five corpses slumped forward — tumbling down the steps to the cobblestones below. A soft sigh rippled through the crowd as the last body sprawled at the foot of the Place of Skulls.

The loudspeakers spoke again. “Thus perish all who would rob and exploit the people of Holy Mother Russia! Return to your homes and factories, fellow countrymen — confident in those who guard and defend you.”

The spectators dispersed slowly, filtering out of the square under the watchful eyes of a crack infantry battalion and a small cluster of white-haired senior officers — each man a bright spectacle of gold braid, service ribbons, and medals. Wheeled BTR-80 APCs and big-gunned T-80 tanks lined the nearby streets as a steel-sided reminder of military power.

“A most impressive display, Colonel.” Marshal Yuri Kaminov clapped Soloviev on the shoulder.

“Thank you, sir.” Soloviev smiled woodenly at Kaminov’s praise. The marshal himself had drawn up the plans for this afternoon’s executions. All he’d had to do was follow them to the last letter.

“We Russians are a simple people. We understand simple, direct lessons. That is why the people respect power. They appreciate a firm hand.” Kaminov pointed to where the dead men were being piled on stretchers and hauled away. “And that is what we shall give them, correct?”

Soloviev nodded.

“Good.” Kaminov motioned to another of his aides — a dark-haired major. The man came forward carrying a thick, stapled sheaf of papers. “Nikolskii has the details for your next assignment.” He lowered his voice. “This is a crucial job, Valentin. Executions like these will help cleanse our society. But we must also purify the armed forces by weeding out the weak and the incompetent. Russia must have a sword and shield she can rely on in these dangerous times.”

The marshal took the documents from the major and handed them to Soloviev. “This is a preliminary list of junior and senior officers we consider unreliable. I want you to organize a series of roving courts-martial ready for immediate action. Instruct the tribunals that I want these vermin expelled from the service in disgrace.” He scowled. “I want them starving in the streets as object lessons for any others who might forget where their loyalties should lie.”

The colonel nodded again, more slowly this time. “As you command, sir.”

Kaminov stared hard at him. “Do not fail me in this matter, Colonel.”

“No, sir.” Soloviev met his gaze coolly. “I know my duty.”

“Very good.” The marshal seemed satisfied. “You are dismissed.”

Soloviev straightened to attention, saluted, and strode toward the staff car waiting to take him back to the Ministry of Defense. He ignored the soldiers already hard at work, washing blood off the Place of Skulls’ gray stone steps.

Once back in his office, he skimmed rapidly through the single-spaced list of names, ranks, and serial numbers. Most of those on it were officers with a reputation for independent thinking or democratic political beliefs. Some, however, seemed there only because their last names sounded Jewish or Moslem or non-Russian in some vague, almost undefinable, way.

He picked up his phone, dialed a four-digit number, and waited for his call to go through. “Soloviev here.”

The colonel listened to the voice on the other end for a few moments, flipping through the list all the while. Finally he nodded. “Yes. It’s begun. As we expected.”

He replaced the receiver and sat silently for several minutes more before issuing the orders that would set Marshal Kaminov’s purge in motion.