Hot Ice

20

The man called Pedro scowled as he looked at the message on the computer screen dated the previous day: “Package arrived per flight plan. Temporary help in place. Smith.”

The obtuse language was a precaution against possible interception by ECHELON, even though the practice was under attack by the European Parliament as an instrument of industrial espionage. Whether the outrage was warranted or the result of the system’s exposure of six billion dollars in graft paid by an aircraft manufacturer to French officials, Pedro neither knew nor cared.

Behind him a younger man also watched the screen. “Package?” he asked in Russian. “I do not understand, Colonel.”

Pedro whirled around, snarling. “Better you should stumble than misspeak! Do not ever refer to me so! My name is Pedro!”

Realizing the greater part of his anger was the result of several shots of vodka, not the other man’s indiscretion, he relented slightly. He produced a pack of Russian cigarettes, black tobacco with cardboard filters, and offered one to the other man. “Is better we speak Spanish. Or better yet, English.”

The other man shook his head in a polite “no thanks” to the tender of the cigarettes. “I still do not understand. I was sent out here by my commander….”

Pedro struck a match and inhaled hungrily. The odor reminded the younger man of the smell of silage on his family’s farm near Kiev.

“You volunteered to serve the cause of saving the planet.” Pedro corrected. “And I am glad to see you, Sergi, er, Carlos. We worked well together in the past.”

Carlos smiled. “I am flattered you remember. You were polkovnik, a colonel. I was a mere mladshiy leytenant, a junior lieutenant. But our mission here is not clear to me. I do not understand Russia’s interest in such matters as saving species such as the little fish, the snail darter, in the United States, or preserving the range of the Arctic polar bear.”

Holding the cigarette between his lips, Pedro turned off the computer, thankful for an excuse not to have to deal with others for the moment. He put an avuncular arm around Carlos’s shoulder, leading him into what served as the house’s living room: cheap chairs made of canvas slung over metal frames. “Come, share a vodka, and I will explain what our superiors in Moscow did not.”

Moments later each man stood, glass in hand. “Tva-jó zda-ró-vye!” they said in unison, tossing down the liquor in a single gulp.

The older, Pedro, refilled the glasses while the foul-smelling tobacco smoldered in an ashtray. “Most of the world believes Marxism is dead,” he began. “At least in the West. But it is not. It has simply changed names and methods.”

Carlos said nothing, a questioning look on his face.

“That is why GrünWelt and related entities exist, my young friend, to continue the struggle against the capitalist oppression of the working classes.”

The younger man ignored his refilled glass. “I do not see what attacking Japanese whaling vessels has to do with Marxism.”

Pedro had tossed back his drink and was refilling. “It may or may not. That is not the point. The point is that by embracing and furthering the cause of saving the planet, we weaken the industrialized Western imperialists.”

Carlos started to ask a question, but Pedro held up a restraining hand. “For instance, just here in Puerto Rico we and our allies forced the closing of a US naval gunnery range on the island of Vieques, insisting it was creating an environmental disaster even though only a small part of the island was involved. A few years ago, our protests forced the US Navy to quit testing antisubmarine sonar off the coast of California because we claimed the sound disturbed whales. One does not pull a fish out of the pond without effort, eh?”

Carlos was impressed. “Surely no sane nation would compromise its defenses for the sake of a few whales?”

Pedro started to pour him another vodka, stopping when he saw the previous glass was untouched. “It gets better yet. Our friends in America have so far prevented or severely limited new offshore drilling, increasing America’s dependence on foreign oil, a source we hope to cut off with the help of our Arab friends.”

“Arab friends?”

“The Arab nations.”

“Nations? More like tribes with flags!” Carlos snorted derisively. “We have allies in America?”

Pedro shrugged. “They are unwitting allies, people devoted to green causes even at the expense of their own country. Each year they protest the building of nuclear power plants. Or any power plants, insisting electricity can be generated by windmills and solar power panels sufficient to run the industry of the land. They scream that dams that generate hydroelectricity prevent the spawning of salmon. Or will cause the demise of the small fish you mention.”

“The snail darter.”

“Yes, that is it.” Pedro, his face becoming flushed, laughed loudly. “When American industry shuts down for lack of fuel, perhaps the people can eat snail darters, eh?”

“Global warming has become an issue,” Carlos observed. “I suppose we oppose carbon emissions.”

His hand wavering, Pedro filled his own glass again. “Absolutely. But we have to do little. The American people fear world industrialization has caused the problem. In fact, one of their former vice presidents flies about the world in a private jet preaching just that. He also heats and cools several homes.”

“The people do not realize how much carbon that jet puts into the atmosphere? I would think it would be hundreds of times more per-passenger seat mile than a commercial aircraft.”

“And for this he won a Nobel Prize! The American people love causes and man-made global warming is the current cause.”

Carlos only sipped at his glass rather than downing it all at once. “And is the planet warming? And is it man’s doing?”

“Who knows? Who cares? When one burns wood in the fireplace, one does not ask who felled the tree, eh? The final result is centuries in the future, long after our bones have become dust. What is important is that we must not let this opportunity to finally topple the capitalist system slip our grasp.”

Carlos shook his head at the proffering of the bottle. The young Russians were not as inclined to binge drink as their elders. Or to spout old aphorisms. “And how does that relate to the operation that has just begun in America?”

Pedro wagged an unsteady finger at him. “This man Peters has possession of certain … certain things that could be damaging to our cause, the cause of preserving Earth.” He snickered, holding up his glass in yet another toast. “The cause of GrünWelt!”

“You will try to gain possession of these, er, objects?”

“Of course. We will use professionals, some of our former military friends who have no connection to GrünWelt. Should they be apprehended, they cannot be traced to us.”

He extended an arm as though in another toast, staggered forward, and would have fallen had not Carlos stood just in time to catch him under the arms. “Come, comrade. It is afternoon, time for the siesta the people here love so much.”

Pedro was already snoring by the time Carlos laid him out on a couch.