Wall of Night

12

Nothing’s ever as simple as you want it to be. Bousikaris had no idea who’d coined the aphorism, but the older he got the truer it seemed to become — which was why he wasn’t surprised when he picked up Sunday’s Post and saw the ad: Adrian, I love you. Come back. Always, Harmon.

Qing wanted another meeting. Bousikaris considered ignoring the summons, but decided against it. Qing didn’t strike him as someone to be antagonized, and until he and Martin could find a way out of this mess, it was better to not poke the dragon.

As before, the Addison Road metrorail stop was nearly deserted. Bousikaris stepped off the train, paused at a pay phone, and pretended to make a call until the last passengers had disappeared, then walked to the railing. He heard footsteps behind him. Qing walked up. “Who were you calling?”

“No one. I was waiting for the platform to clear.”

“Very well.”

“What do you want?” Bousikaris said.

“Tell me about the plans. Are there any problems?”

“The whole damned thing is a problem. You don’t just order the chairman of the JCS and the director of the CIA to put on this kind of operation and expect them to not ask questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Nuts and bolts stuff.” Bousikaris noted Feng’s confused expression: “Tactical details. It’s highly unusual for a president to dictate those. The background we put together is solid enough, but the rest of it … They’re both nervous.”

“They answer to the president, do they not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then they’ll do as they’re ordered. Is the operation moving forward?”

Bousikaris nodded. “If anything goes wrong, though, there will be investigations. Mason is a cold warrior at heart. He sees conspiracy behind every bush.”

“That’s his job. Nothing will go wrong and Mason will find other things to worry about. There’s another matter that requires your attention. The FBI is investigating an … associate of ours. If it goes any further, it could endanger our arrangement.”

“How so?”

“That’s not your concern. We want the investigation stopped.”

“Christ, we don’t have that kind of power. You don’t just call the FBI and—”

“Then don’t use power,” Qing replied. “Reach out, plant the seed. Let others do the work.”

“What’s the case?”

Qing told him.

“That was you? You did that?”

“Of course not. We’re not stupid. Our connection to the man is accidental. According to our associate, the man had a gambling problem. He owed many thousands of dollars to … what’s the word?”

“Loan sharks? Are you saying he and his family were—”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m merely stating facts. Somehow he got the name of our associate and contacted him hoping to buy several kilos of cocaine, which he hoped to turn into a profit. The FBI must have come across our associate’s name in their investigation, and now they’re interested in him.”

“How does this person relate to our arrangement?”

“That’s not your worry. We want the investigation stopped. How you choose to do it is up to you, but you will do it.”

Though Qing didn’t bother saying “or else,” Bousikaris knew it was there. What would happen? he wondered. The country had had a bellyful of scandal. How would the public react if it realized China had funded the lion’s share of Martin’s campaign? They’d be lucky to escape prison.

They’d worked too hard and too long to get here. Whatever China’s game, that was their business. He and Martin would play their part, then move on. If they had to get their hands a little dirty for the greater good, so be it. A little dirt never hurt anyone. “I’ll handle it,” he told Qing.

Vladimir Bulganin stared out the car window. “Two weeks until the election, Ivan,” he said. “We have them. We’re so close.”

Nochenko felt the same, but wasn’t ready to celebrate yet. “The polls may be in our favor, but now is the time we must push even harder.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you decide.” Something outside the window caught Bulganin’s attention. “Driver, pull over!”

“Vlad, what are you doing? We’re expected at the Duma. We cannot keep them—”

“The Duma can wait,” Bulganin replied, then grinned. “After all, in a few weeks, they’ll have no choice but to wait on me — hand and foot!” Bulganin laughed uproariously and opened the car door. Nochenko followed.

They’d stopped on Kuybyshev Street. To their right stood St. Basil’s Cathedral — or, as Bulganin demanded it be called — the Cathedral of the Intercession; to their left lay Red Square.

As Bulganin stepped out, his security detail formed a ring around them. “Pyotr,” Bulganin called to his security chief, ‘“I feel like a stroll. I’ll sign a few autographs, but no more.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nochenko said, “Vladimir, we don’t have time—”

Bulganin clapped his shoulder, “Perhaps in public, Ivan, it might be best we avoid familiarities.”

He must be joking, Nochenko thought. “Pardon me?”

“Mr. Bulganin will do, I think. Of course, in private, we’re just two comrades having a chat. All right, Pyotr! Lead on.”

Bulganin was immediately recognized. Within minutes he and Nochenko were surrounded by well-wishers and autograph seekers. Pyotr and the other bodyguards cut a path through the crowd, occasionally letting an admirer through for Bulganin to greet and dismiss. Nochenko felt himself jostled from all sides; the cacophony of voices was almost deafening.

After a few minutes, Bulganin nodded to Pyotr and the bodyguards spread out, pushing the crowd away until Bulganin and Nochenko had a circle in which they could stroll.

“How well do you know your Red Square history, Ivan?” Bulganin asked.

“Fairly well, I suppose.”

“What about the very name—Krasnaya Ploshchadl In Old Slavonic, Krasnaya also means “beautiful.” Too bad the West didn’t pick up on that, eh? Instead of ‘Reds,’ perhaps they would have called us ‘the beautiful ones.’ Do you know where all that St. Basil’s nonsense began?”

“No.”

“St. Basil was nothing more than a delusional hobo. The truth is, the cathedral was built to commemorate Ivan the Terrible’s capture of Kazan. Oh, what I would give to have been there — to see the expressions on their dirty Tartar faces when Ivan fired the city.”

Ivan the Terrible had earned his moniker for good reason, Nochenko wanted to say. The man had been a butcher. How Bulganin could—

“And there!” Bulganin called, pointing to the GUM department store. “Moscow’s first concession to capitalism right across from Lenin’s Mausoleum. It’s an insult! No, that’s not the right word … betrayal is more like it.”

Bulganin stopped before the Mausoleum. On either side of its heavy wooden doors stood a pair of stoic sentries. “Six times in the last year,” Bulganin muttered.

“What’s that?” Nochenko asked. “Six times for what?”

“To repaint the tomb’s facade, Ivan. Just last week a pair of thugs pelted it with paint-filled balloons. Can you believe it? What’s happening to our country?”

Knowing Bulganin didn’t want an answer, Nochenko remained silent.

“And this,” Bulganin murmured, “this is where it happened. The worst crime of all.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The removal of Koba’s body. Until that backstabbing dog Khrushchev removed it, he was resting in his rightful place: next to Lenin, next to his friend and mentor, the founder of the Soviet.”

Nochenko suddenly realized that Bulganin was weeping.

“Wrested from eternal peace, shoved into a pine box, and buried under the mausoleum wall like some commoner. It makes my blood boil, Ivan, it truly does.”

Nochenko didn’t know what to say. In all the years he’d known Bulganin, this was the first moment of unguarded sentiment he’d seen from the man; that he was crying over the corpse of Russia’s greatest mass murderer chilled Nochenko. Was all Bulganin’s talk of the great Koba Stalin more than just historical musings? Was there something more to it?

“Did I ever tell you where I was born?” Bulganin asked.

“No, you didn’t.”

Bulganin turned to him. “They call it the Valley of the Blossoming Orchards.”

The nickname sounded vaguely familiar. “Gori,” Nochenko said. “Kartli, Georgia, correct?”

“That’s right. And why else is it remarkable? Do you know, Ivan?”

“No.”

“Gori, my friend, was also the birthplace of the great Koba.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Bulganin virtually marching, his hands clasped behind his back. “So, Ivan, you were saying …”

“Pardon me?”

“In the car — about the polls.”

“Oh, yes. The election is nearing. Now, more than ever, we must stay focused. The greater the pressure on the current administration, the greater the likelihood they will make a mistake. When that time comes, we must be ready to exploit it.”

“A chink in the armor, is that what you mean?”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“Yes, yes. An Achilles’ Heel. We must expose the opponents’ true colors. Of course!”

If nothing else, Nochenko thought, Bulganin certainly knew how to string together cliches. “Yes, Vladimir, I see that, but we must be careful not to …”

Bulganin didn’t seem to hear the question. He continued pacing, muttering to himself.

​Still working under the assumption that Genoa had not only been a colleague of Soong’s, but also a career spook, Oaken returned to the Wan Trahn database, this time looking for a face.

Using both open and classified sources, he and Tanner constructed a “yearbook” of every officer that had served with Soong in the years prior to Ledger. It took Tanner an hour before he was able to narrow the field to half a dozen candidates. “It’s tough,” he said. “It’s been twelve years.”

“Don’t think too hard,” Oaken replied. “Go with your gut.”

Tanner leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to recall his meetings with the man known as Genoa. He let the images flow. Don’t think, just look …

He leaned over the photos again, scanning faces—

“That’s him,” Briggs whispered, tapping a photo. “Jesus, that’s him.”

“You’re sure?”

Tanner nodded. “I’m sure.”

Oaken turned over the photo and read: “Commander Moh Yen Fong, People’s Liberation Army Navy. He was Soong’s personal aide.”

Tanner nodded. “Let’s find him.”