GENERALMaxim Sergeyevich Grivetsky lay on the bottom bunk of his compartment puffing angrily on his cigar. He could not afford such carelessness on this mission. He knew that he had had too much to drink and was quite annoyed with himself for letting it happen. But it had been the only way to quiet his excitement. He had been agitated over the inefficiency and stupidity of the attendants in the dining car. He simply could not abide the arrogance of underlings, a quality that had enhanced his reputation as a cruel general. This reputation angered him, because deep inside he believed that he was a gentle man. Anyone who questioned his behavior obviously had no understanding of the responsibilities of command.
It was a general’s task to reach an objective by whatever means necessary; to hold that objective until it came under civilian control, and then to engineer an orderly withdrawal. It was truly a science. Men and equipment were simply the raw materials of the equation, the x’s and y’s of the elaborate formulas of defense and attack. Emotion, anger or compassion had no place.
It was precisely this emotional discipline that gave Grivetsky a special edge over his fellow officers. It had propelled him up the ladder, until finally he had won the complete confidence of the General Secretary. Dimitrov would have trusted no one else with this crucial, most dangerous assignment. Grivetsky was proud of the fact that he had reached this position without the usual intriguing or ass-kissing. He was, first and foremost, a military scientist, with special expertise in the field of nuclear armaments. This specialty immunized him from political considerations. Politics was for them—not for him. He paid little attention to ideology. Marx and Lenin were simply names on the lips of party flunkies. He was concerned only with competence, with developing a nuclear strategy that would function under all foreseeable circumstances. Grivetsky did not deal in issues and decision-making. He did not choose objectives, he reached them. Grivetsky followed orders.
“We must teach them a lesson,” Dimitrov had said, grinding a stubby forefinger into the area of the map designated the People’s Republic of China. The map denoted all the Russian missile batteries, some poised to knock out every confirmed and suspected missile battery that the Chinese had erected, while others pointed directly into the heart of every major Chinese city.
“We cannot count on knocking out every Chinese battery in a first strike. There is every likelihood that they could get off a few retaliatory missiles,” Grivetsky told him, “mostly from their Manchurian sites.”
“How many?”
“Maybe five. Maybe six.”
“And a year from now?”
“Possibly double that number as their range increases. They are moving quickly.” Grivetsky watched Dimitrov concentrating on the map. “At the moment they could very probably destroy the Trans-Baikal area, Irkutsk, Ulan-Ude, Chita and, of course, Vladivostok and Nakhodka. I can more or less guarantee that European Russia will be safe. But I’m afraid that parts of Asian Siberia would be in very bad shape indeed.”
Dimitrov’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head.
“Our poor Siberian orphan,” he said. “She has been raped so many times, what is one more sacrifice?” He sighed. “If only those Chinks would be reasonable. If only Stalin had been a little more considerate of Mao’s feelings, all might have been different.”
He remained silent for a long time, then shook himself awake. “Nonsense. It was inevitable from the beginning. There is simply no room for the two of us. Without hegemony our leadership will disintegrate in time.” He opened one hand and began to tick off a list of treaties.
“The Americans want us to compromise. They can’t understand that the Chinks will never settle with us unless they are forced to do so. They cannot swallow what we have done to them for a hundred years. The Treaty of Aigun, in 1858, giving us the territory north of the Amur and west of the Sungari.” As he ticked off each treaty, he pointed to the territory on the map. “The Treaty of Peking, by which we acquired the lands east of the Sungari and Ussuri; the Tehcheng Protocol, where we claimed additional areas in western China; and the Treaty of Ili, where we picked up this land in Sinkiang. Now they want all that back and, to boot, Outer Mongolia.” Dimitrov had grown agitated, jabbing his finger into the map, his temper rising. “And here, and here, and here—five and a half million kilometers. And, of course, there can be no dealing with them. No compromise will suit them until we’ve handed over all the lands east of Lake Baikal, including Vladivostok, Khabarovsk and Kamchatka.”
Grivetsky had listened in silence to this lesson in political geography. It was not his domain. What did it matter? All these claims and counterclaims. They only confused the real issue, the true objective, which was the neutralization of the Chinese nuclear capability.
“This is our last chance to get away so cheap,” Dimitrov had said, his energy increasing as his argument warmed. He seemed to be pleading, asking for understanding of his motives. But Grivetsky’s mind was wandering. What would happen if the Americans responded with an aggressive strike of their own? That, of course, was the major risk. His mind raced over the compendium of options that had been worked out by his military planners. An American response would be a holocaust, a no-win draw, with no one left to crawl out of the ruins.
“Don’t worry about the Americans,” Dimitrov had said, as if reading his mind. “It will all be afait accompli . We will, of course, have to answer to them. They will accuse us of duplicity. Oh, they will beat their breasts and vilify us. But, in the end, they will only bluster.”
Grivetsky watched as Dimitrov’s energy waned, his face grew pele, his eyes sank deeper in their sockets. He spoke more slowly, more deliberately.
“You will be given total command of the entire Sino-Soviet front, Maxim Sergeyevich. You will proceed to Red Banner Headquarters in Chita under the guise of a routine inspection. Once you are on the spot, I will give the order.”
Dimitrov watched his reactions. “You think I am throwing you to the wolves, Maxim Sergeyevich?”
“There is Bulgakov,” Grivetsky had stammered. An image of the strong, broad face of the Marshall floated into his mind.
“Bulgakov will bend. The Politburo will bend. We must give them no time to intrigue, no time to second-guess.” Dimitrov paused. “I have your trust?”
“Without question, Comrade.”
“Good.”
Little more explanation was needed, Grivetsky thought. He had no illusions about the dangers of his position, which he assessed with his usual coolness.
Dimitrov’s time frame, Grivetsky reasoned, had been compressed by his own illness, which was quite obviously serious. He had been forced to move his timetable forward by months, perhaps years. Dimitrov’s mysterious affliction was causing ripples of confusion and uncertainty. The various bureaucratic factions that intrigued around the seat of power were nervous. They could no longer predict their own futures and they were totally unprepared for change. The major issue was: Was Dimitrov dying? If so, how long did he have to live?
Grivetsky could imagine the whispers going on behind the scenes, the furtive conferences and social calls outside official orbits. He could imagine, too, the activities of the intelligence service. It was as if the whole world was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Dimitrov surely knew it.
For Grivetsky himself, every question suggested another, revealing still more questions to be studied. Suppose Dimitrov died before Grivetsky’s mission was accomplished? Suppose opposing factions within the KGB discovered Dimitrov’s plan? Suppose the Chinese got wind of it? Suppose this entire plan was the dream of a madman, of a paranoid on the brink of death, of a desperate megalomaniac who wished to leave his mark on the world? Suppose? But it was not Grivetsky’s job to suppose. Above anything else, Grivetsky knew that Dimitrov was correct in at least one assumption. He had chosen the right man in Grivetsky.
Sitting now in the privacy and comfort of his compartment, he felt his fingers burn with the heat of the dwindling nub of his cigar. He smashed it out quickly in the ashtray and looked at his watch. It was past eleven. The dining car would be closed now and his mind was too agitated for sleep. Standing up, he brushed back his ruffled hair and surveyed his image in the black window of the train. He needed a shave.
Before he had left Dimitrov’s dacha, the Secretary had assured him that their meeting would be confidential. The general’s visit would not be considered unusual, since Dimitrov was accustomed to ask Grivetsky for periodical briefings and the Supreme Commander, Marshall Bulgakov, welcomed the opportunity for his protégé. After all, they were all comrades, dependent on each other’s trust and good will. And Grivetsky, in Bulgakov’s mind, could never—would never—be disloyal. Hadn’t he been godfather to Bulgakov’s second child? And Dimitrov himself had been godfather to the Marshall’s firstborn.
Grivetsky had not been back in his Moscow office thirty seconds before the phone rang. Of course it was Bulgakov. So they were watching him, he thought. Bulgakov requested that the general come to his office.
“So tell me, Maxim Sergeyevich,” the Marshall said, after the door had been closed behind Grivetsky. “How does he look?”
“Better,” Grivetsky had replied.
“Better than last time?” They had been together a month before for a working luncheon at the dacha.
“He is better. But he tires,” Grivetsky had said, feeling Bulgakov’s big brown eyes probing him. “He is definitely not a well man.”
“Did he tell you what’s wrong?”
“A flu, I suppose.”
“But did he tell you that himself?”
“No.” Grivetsky paused. “I thought I shouldn’t ask. That would be indelicate.”
“You don’t think he was acting strangely?”
Grivetsky felt the pressure of the inquiry. I must not appear suspicious, he told himself.
“Perhaps a bit more guarded,” Grivetsky said. “The security surrounding him was more intense than usual, but he seemed cheerful.”
“Did he ask you anything specific?” Bulgakov asked, betraying his own suspicions.
“No, just the usual. General questions about the dispositions.”
Bulgakov turned his eyes away and looked out of the window.
“They say he is dying,” Bulgakov said abruptly, without taking his eyes from the window. “He is alleged to have leukemia.”
“My God!”
“Did you see the American doctor at the dacha?”
“No.”
“He is an expert on blood diseases. Apparently the Secretary doesn’t trust Russian medical science.” He turned to face Grivetsky. “I can’t say that I blame him.”
“How do you know all this?” Grivetsky asked, wondering if he was being incautious.
“The vultures are picking at the carcass while it is still warm. They are starting to kiss my ass with ever-increasing zeal. The KGB bastards are planting the biggest kisses.”
“It may just be a ruse,” Grivetsky said. “From what I observed last night, I’d say the Secretary’s mind was quite intact.” He paused a moment, observing Bulgakov. They had come a long way together. “He mentioned something about wanting me to look over the Far Eastern situation. I assumed he meant personally. I’m sure he will talk to you about it.”
He watched Bulgakov’s face for any signs of hesitation. Instead, it was apparent that Bulgakov was thinking in a totally different direction.
“But, if he is as sick as they say, we must watch him carefully. A man at the end of his rope has little to lose.” Bulgakov seemed to be talking to himself. Then he lifted his tunic and brought out a silver flask from his rear pocket. “Brandy?”
“No, thanks.”
“Good to have you back, Maxim Sergeyevich,” Bulgakov said, taking a deep swallow from the flask.
Grivetsky took this as a signal that he had been dismissed.
When he heard nothing for a week, he became irritated. Maybe the man is dying, he thought. Finally, he was summoned to Bulgakov’s office. It was at the end of the day and the Marshall had already set up the nightly buffet of fish, caviar, vodka and brandy. He poured Grivetsky some vodka.
“Well, I heard from the old man today,” Bulgakov said. “He was positively buoyant. Haven’t heard him in such good spirits for years. He’s invited me down in a couple of weeks. Says his flu is clearing up.”
He smeared a gob of caviar on a sliver of toast and stuffed it into his mouth. “Oh, yes,” he said, his mouth still full, “he wants you to tour the Far Eastern bases.” Grivetsky felt his stomach tighten. “Look things over. Wants it to be low-key. No boat rocking. Just a hard look.
“Did he give any special reason?” Grivetsky asked casually.
“He said he’d talk to us in a couple of weeks about some ideas he was having. After you get back.”
“I’d better make arrangements immediately.”
“Oh, yes—he said you should take the train.”
“The train?”
“He wants to emphasize the low-key. And between you and me, Maxim Sergeyevich, I think he wants to telescope the message that his illness is not as bad as all that. He didn’t say that, but I know how his mind works.”
“It’s a waste of time,” Grivetsky said. “I hate trains. I’ll be bored to death.”
And now it was only the first night, and already he was climbing the walls. He was sorry that he had arranged for a private compartment. It was nerve-wracking, the isolation, the loneliness. He opened the door of his compartment. Its smallness was making him claustrophobic, and yet he could not abide all those staring eyes poking into the room as people moved along the passageway. One strange waddling man was particularly offensive, walking up and down like some wounded homeless dog.
Poking his head out of the door, he looked down the passageway in either direction, then stepped out, a bottle of vodka tucked under his jacket and held in place by the crook of his arm. He passed through the soft-class carriage, through the darkened restaurant car. The little man in charge sat in a corner going over his accounts. Grivetsky glared at the man and, without stopping, passed through the darkened car, through the freezing vestibule to the hard sections.
The carriage door slid heavily behind him, in a great crashing sound that carried with it a message of finality. Here in the hard class the scent of less-privileged humanity hung in the air like the smell of rotting fish. Clothes dangled from ropes strung out along the ceiling. Young soldiers sprawled on hard bunks in their underwear, playing cards or sipping from open bottles of wine. In the din of voices and train sounds, Grivetsky could pick out the heavy snores of those who managed to sleep regularly amid the confusion. But despite the general disarray, he sensed the camaraderie, a kind of happy infectious resignation, which made an adventure out of the discomfort.
A crowd had gathered in one of the compartments, spilling over into the passageway. He stood on his toes to peer over the heads of the spectators. He could see men leaning precariously from the upper bunks, while others literally hung by their arms from the mesh of the baggage racks. The center of their attention was two men, sitting opposite each other on the hard bunks. One was an old, unkempt man with a patch over one eye and deep ridges in his forehead. His opponent was a heavyset man with a pushed-in hog’s face. They were playing chess, oblivious to the crowd that milled around them.
“He is an old champion and he has already beaten all comers,” a little man whispered to the general. “It’s two rubles a game.”
“He makes his living that way,” another man snickered. “All he does is ride the Trans-Siberian. He never sleeps, plays day and night.” The man looked at his watch. “This is only the beginning.”
Grivetsky watched the game, holding tightly to the vodka in the crook of his arm. The old man was expressionless, hardly blinking his one good eye as he studied the board, while the other man’s lips moved with the tension of mental exertion. Grivetsky felt his agitation subside, as he insinuated himself into the little crowd.
The spectators were deep in sympathetic concentration, as the sweating, hog-faced challenger opened his clenched fist and placed a finger lightly on his knight. No, you fool, Grivetsky shouted within himself, knowing that others in the room were feeling the same frustration at the man’s denseness. Almost in defiance of their unspoken commands, he moved the knight, exposing the king. It was all over in a moment, a swift move of the bishop and the king had no escape route. Grivetsky counted the moves. Eight!
“Are you ready for another opponent, Father?” Grivetsky boomed, pulling out the vodka bottle and passing it over to the old man. The crowd made way and Grivetsky sat himself on the bunk opposite.
“I am always ready,” the old man said quietly, removing the cork of the vodka bottle with his teeth and taking a swallow without moving his one good eye from Grivetsky’s face. But the general had already begun to lose himself in concentration, studying the chessboard, calculating the old man’s previous moves. He felt completely calm now, back in his element, the anticipation of the game drawing his mind together, focusing his concentration on the abstractions of move and counter-move. He took the vodka bottle from the old man, drank deeply and began to set up his pieces.