The Third World War: A Terrifying Novel of Global Conflict

73

Kozlov recognized what Ekatarina was practising as Haydn's Second Cello Concerto. He had asked and she had told him. At any another time, Andrei Kozlov would have put his daughter's name down for the Conservatoire in Paris. He would have liked her to have studied in New York, too, and known the nervous energy of that city. He had understood she would never be able to do that at the moment when he knew the threshold had been crossed. For a hesitating instant, Andrei Kozlov wondered why it had come to this. Six times already Yushchuk had opened the door of his study, walked over to where he was sitting in a hardback chair, twenty feet away from where his daughter was playing, and whispered in his ear that the White House, that President West, that Secretary of State Newman, that Chief of Staff Kozerski was on the line wanting to speak.

Each time, the only thought in his mind was the darkness moving across the world and forming itself into new borders, immigration posts, bleak metal structures, uniforms and armies. Ekatarina looked briefly up at him without missing a note. He tried to find a metaphor for her love of music and for what was swirling around in his head. But there was nothing at all, which was surely why no accomplished musician had ever become the leader of a nation. If you are lucky enough to be born with talent, you cherish it and find sanctuary there. You do not volunteer for a life of office.

A shaft of light came through from the study, casting Yushchuk's flitting shadow across the room. Kozlov stood up quietly, put his fingers to his lips long enough for Ekatarina to see and walked to the study. Yushchuk handed him the telephone.

'Jim,' said Kozlov softly. 'At Camp David, I told you Russia was resting. I might have been wrong. I'm sorry.'

'We're giving China until the top of the hour to hand over Memed, and we're taking out their missile sites in Cuba. Out troops are on the outskirts of Pyongyang. We will stop there, if China wants to talk.'

Kozlov detected anger and hesitation. West was threatening, but with reluctance in his tone.

'Are you talking to Jamie?' asked Kozlov, keeping his voice measured and low. Through the closed door, he could still hear Ekatarina's cello.

'Yes, we've got through. If we can deal on Cuba, maybe the rest will fall into place.'

'Good. Good,' said Kozlov. 'Then perhaps Russia can rest.'

'Have you talked to him?'

Yes, Kozlov thought to himself. Many times, but he would not tell West. Three hours last night. An hour this morning.

'This is between you and him,' said Kozlov.

'And if we fail?'

'They will hand over Memed. But they will not do it immediately. They will allow you to take Pyongyang. But not immediately. They will pull out of Cuba. But not immediately. They will stake their position from a moral high ground, and you must listen. They will claim that instead of arguing, America threatens to murder them. You must not give them the opportunity to say that. They will say that China and America are the civilized world, and that China's views must be treated equally. They will argue that poverty has not been solved because America has stopped caring, that America has had it too good for too long, and that it has fallen to China to protect the poor from darkness and give them hope. Let them speak, Jim. Listen. Be patient. You Americans are always in such a rush.'

Kozlov had spoken with a brooding authority. West's own patience was on the edge.

'If your citizens were being bombed and dying from an incurable epidemic, wouldn't you be in a rush?'

'Jim, I was elected with a specific mandate to make Russia less reliant on the West. I have put in place substantive policies to honour that mandate. Included in that was a defence treaty with China. I cannot change all that just because it is becoming difficult. If the US and China cannot resolve their difference, then Russia will support China.'

'Come what may?'

'Yes.'

'It's madness, Andrei. Utter madness.'

'Some spark of purity might come from it,' answered Kozlov. 'But empires are never founded on sanity.'