GENERALGrivetsky had been sitting immobile in the chair for hours. The changes in the landscape and the weather had made no dent on his consciousness. All his energies were applied to considering the essential details of Dimitrov’s plan. Dimitrov had revealed nothing, asking only that Grivetsky take command, get his fingers on all the strings of command. But what was to happen next was obvious. From a military point of view, the options were narrow. The essential ingredients were full preparedness, alertness, vigilance.
He reviewed again the first strike capability of the missiles in the arsenal. The Chinese second strike potential was hardly a threat, in terms of either range or power. And he would order the Air Force into a full strategic alert, which meant that more than half the planes in the command would take to the skies as a protective shield against enemy aircraft. He was pleased with the weaponry that the technological people had developed and the factories had produced. Nothing had been spared to achieve this state of readiness and sophistication. The machines had been tested and retested, checked and double-checked. No other products made in the Soviet Union got such care.
The only possible malfunction was in the area of human response. There could be no such thing as a totally automated war, he thought sadly. They must still depend on human beings, the most fallible cipher in the equation. Hundreds of mistakes were possible—an error in timing, pressure on a wrong button, an optical illusion, a sudden stroke, a cardiac arrest, psychological paralysis, an emotional blockage. He himself, of course, was fully prepared, mentally and emotionally, to react to the ultimate order.
Grivetsky admitted to feeling a little uneasy about Bulgakov. Dimitrov, it was clear, had chosen to circumvent Bulgakov in the line of command. Grivetsky dared not question why. Private judgments were not his province. The fact was that Dimitrov was the ultimate leader, the power source. The Politburo might number sixteen members, but Dimitrov was the leader. Let them keep their illusions of collective leadership. Dimitrov could charm them, terrorize them. Dimitrov! He was cunning. He had bamboozled them all. Let them quibble over the fine points of leadership. If Dimitrov gave the order, Grivetsky would obey. They would all obey. The only question in his mind, the thing which made him restless, was who had set the KGB to watch him. Were they operating under Dimitrov’s orders, acting as insurance of his trustworthiness? That was too insulting. Besides, Dimitrov would not have confided this mission to him if he had not had absolute faith in his loyalty. Or was it Bulgakov? That was the one possibility that could not be reasoned away. Yet Bulgakov would not confess insecurity about one of his generals to the hated KGB, who would relish any hint of Bulgakov’s vulnerability. Or was it that the KGB was working on its own? It was quite conceivable. Perhaps they had not been fooled by his ploy of taking the train to throw off any suspicion that a military decision was pending.
Grivetsky picked up the vodka bottle and poured himself a stiff drink, downing it in one long swallow. At least he could count on the solid loyalty of the train attendant, Tania. She had popped in and out of his compartment all day, bringing him tea and cookies. He was vain enough to understand the meaning of her offerings and old enough to be gratified by it. In return, he valued her as he would an English sheepdog that was obedient to a fault.
During every visit Tania would report her observations, growing more and more chatty with each exchange. During the last visit, she had given him a rundown on each of the passengers, laced with her own observations.
“There is another man in the compartment with the red-haired KGB.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No. He is always in the washroom when I clean up. They also have electronic equipment and guns.”
“Guns?”
“I have yet to see a KGB without guns.”
“Of course.”
“And the American doctor and the blonde woman have not left their compartment for the entire day. Occasionally the KGB man darts out, walks up and down the corridors and goes back into the compartment.”
“And the funny-looking squat man, the cripple?”
“Something very strange has happened. He got off at Krasnoyarsk and barely made it back to the train again. He looked pale and sick when he got on. I saw him walking down the passageway, holding onto the handrail as if each step was a chore. Then he went into his compartment and has not come out since, which is strange, since up till now he was hardly ever in the compartment.”
“And the soldiers?”
“Still on the train. They piled out at Krasnoyarsk, as usual, to buy things from the women.”
“When will we be in Irkutsk?”
“In the morning. At 7:31A.M. , providing we make up the half hour we lost at Omsk.”
“Will the snow slow the train down?”
“Never,” she said proudly. “We have beat the snow on this run for more than seventy years.” It was the proud railway employee talking. “There will be plenty of workers ahead to clear the tracks.”
“It is an extremely efficient operation.”
She blushed, taking it as a personal compliment.
“You will wake me before we get to Irkutsk. I must use the telephone again.”
Something she had said had triggered his curiosity, set his mind going in a different direction. Why was another KGB man hiding in one of the compartments?
“You say you have never seen that other man?” he asked gently.
“Who?”
“The other KGB man.”
“No.”
“It is unusual for them to stay out of sight like this?”
“Yes. Normally they are visible. Unless he is a technician using the equipment. But even then one man usually relieves the other. I have never seen one holed up like a squirrel.”
“Do you have a passkey to the compartments?”
She hesitated. He smiled at her benignly.
“Yes.”
“Could you lend it to me, Tania?”
He watched her flush, her eyes darting uncomfortably around the compartment. His half-conceived plan became clearer as he pressed her. It was a necessary countermeasure, he decided. Sooner or later he would have to force a confrontation and, if the surveillance was inspired by Dimitrov himself, it was better that he knew it right away. If Bulgakov had ordered it, that, too, was better brought into the open. And if it was the KGB acting alone, that should be immediately communicated to both Bulgakov and Dimitrov.
“Would you lend me the key, Tania?” he asked again. He watched as she twisted and untwisted her fingers.
“I am afraid,” she whispered.
“A great deal depends upon my knowing who is behind this,” he said, speaking gently, as if she were a child.
She shook her head. “I am afraid,” she whispered again, her words barely audible.
He moved toward her. She stepped back, but there was not far to move and her back pressed up against the compartment door. He reached out and caressed her cheek. Her hand went up and covered his, pressing it to her skin. She closed her eyes, and he felt the strength of his power over her.
“You must give me the key.”
She opened her eyes, looked into his.
“I am afraid for you.”
“For me?”
“They are cruel,” she said. “I have seen them—” He placed a finger over her lips.
“You must,” he said, drawing her body against his. He felt the outlines of her big body, the press of her heavy breasts, and heard her breath come faster. It was a subterfuge on his part. He felt no stirring for this hog of a woman. He brought his lips close against her ear.
“Later,” he said. “Tonight.”
She pressed her body harder against his. Should he kiss her? he wondered, detesting the idea. She spared him the necessity.
“I will come,” she said with obvious excitement. The skin of her cheeks had grown hot.
“And the key?”
“It is in my quarters.”
“Get it now.” She pressed herself tightly against him, kissing his cheek. When she was gone, he poured himself a stiff vodka and gulped it down.
He had already relit his cigar when she returned with the key on a metal ring.
“You must be careful,” she said, grabbing his hand and lifting it to her lips.
“Yes,” he said, not allowing himself to snatch his hand away.
“I will see you tonight,” she reminded him.
“You must tell me when he is alone.”
“Yes,” she said. “But you must promise to be careful.”
“I promise,” he said quickly, mechanically, like a small child promising to always be good. This is ridiculous, he thought.
When she had let herself out again, he poured himself another stiff drink and looked out the window. Heavy snow rattled against the glass, the crystals clinging on impact and sliding slowly downward. He bent down and slid his suitcase out from under the bunk. Clicking it open, he moved his hand around the inside edge until his fingers touched the smooth leather of a holster. The gun was cold as he removed it and checked the magazine.