Politika pp-1 Read online

  What they had not said before they finally left was whether there was any way to repair the damage in time for the next planting season, or even the one after that.

  Perhaps it was too late, Veli Gazon thought.

  The mill was silent, now.

  Silent as a tomb.

  There was no grain.

  Veli moistened the tips of his thumb and forefinger with a little saliva, pinched out his cigarette, and dropped the stub into his shirt pocket. Later, he would add the tobacco inside it to that of other stubs and reroll them, wasting nothing.

  There was no grain.

  Not in his village, or the neighboring one. Not in any of the fields between the Black Sea and the Caspian.

  And what that meant was that soon…

  Frighteningly soon…

  The only things that would be plentiful in Russia were the cries of the hungry and the dying.

  FOUR

  THE WHITE HOUSE WASHINGTON, D.C. OCTOBER 26, 1999

  “…In Russia, bread is Everything,” Vladimir Starinov was saying in fluent but heavily accented English. “Do you understand?”

  President Ballard considered Starinov’s words.

  “I think so, Vladimir,” he said. “As best I can from where I sit, anyway.”

  Both were silent a moment.

  The Rose Garden photo ops behind them, the two men had retreated to the large, wood-paneled conference room down the hall from the Oval Office, eager to rough out an emergency aid agreement before their luncheon with congressional leaders. On Starinov’s side of the table were his minister of the interior Yeni Bashkir, known to be a strong supporter of the Communists, and Pavel Moser, a high-ranking member of the Federation Council. With the President were Vice President Stephen Humes, Secretary of Agriculture Carol Carlson, and Secretary of State Orvel Bowman. A White House interpreter named Hagen sat at the far end of the table, looking and feeling superfluous.

  Now Starinov gazed across at the President, his broad, round face sober, his gray eyes steady behind a pair of wire glasses.

  “I want to make it clear that I am speaking literally,” he said. “What matters to American voters is the availability of choices. If costs and incomes are stable, choices expand and politicians win reelection. If the economy falters, choices narrow and leaders are replaced. But the concerns of the Russian people are more basic. They do not worry about what they will eat, but whether they will eat at all.” He paused, took a deep breath. “Perhaps the best way to illustrate my point is with the exception. Have you ever seen the McDonald’s restaurant in Moscow? Men and women save for months before bringing their families there for a meal… those with jobs, that is. They stand in line for hours to get through the door, as if it opens to some strange and unimaginably wondrous place. And in a sense it does. It is an extravagance for them. A rare indulgence. And for those outside the capital, who are often without work, it is a place no one even dreams of visiting. Do you see? Bread is all they can afford. Without it millions will have nothing on their tables. Absolutely nothing. Their children will die of hunger. And fairly or not, their anger will turn toward their leaders.”

  The President leaned forward, his elbows on the table, fingers tented under his chin. “Most of all, I’d think, on a leader who appeals to the United States for assistance and comes back empty-handed.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Yes,” Starinov said. “He might indeed appear ineffectual. And, regrettably, there are elements within the government, some of whom still harbor cold war resentments toward your country, who would be pleased to use such a failure to incite the Russian electorate and gain greater standing for themselves.”

  Touché, the President thought. You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream.

  He turned to Secretary Carlson. “Carol, how much aid can we provide, and how fast could we get it moving?”

  An elegant woman of fifty-five with the inexhaustible energy and slender good looks of someone ten years younger, she pursed her lips in thought, pretending to make some hurried mental calculations. In fact, she and the President had run through this whole scenario in advance. Ballard liked, respected, and, most importantly, needed Starinov as an ally. He was prepared to do whatever it took to bolster his popularity and keep him in office. And, not to be too cynical, he liked the idea of getting food into the mouths of starving babes. Still, it was hardly beneath him to also use food as leverage — or even as a weighty club — in certain ongoing arms reduction and trade negotiations.

  “We have sufficient reserves to provide at least a hundred thousand tons of wheat, oats, and barley, with a somewhat lesser quantity of cornmeal,” she said after what seemed a reasonable pause for thought. “As far as a time frame, my best guess is we could get our first shipments out within a month. Of course, that’s assuming we can persuade Congress to go along with us.”

  The President nodded, shifting his attention to the Veep. “Steve, what about financial aid?”

  “I’ve been recommending three hundred million dollars in loans as part of an overall package. Realistically, we might be able to secure half that amount, with strict conditions attached to its use and repayment.”

  “In my opinion, it’s the distribution end of this effort that’s going to be the hardest sell,” Secretary Bowman said. “Even with the participation of U.S. troops kept to a minimum, everybody’s concerned about another Somalia-type situation.”

  Which, everyone in the room knew, was a moderately delicate way of saying a situation in which American soldiers were forced to repel violent mobs of looters trying to raid cargo from trucks and grain storehouses.

  Bashkir gave Bowman a sharp look. A dour man of middle age whose dark complexion and thick, flat features bore the somatotype of his Far Eastern ancestry, he was known in diplomatic circles for being as personally loyal to Starinov as he was outspokenly critical of his pro-Western policies.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, my government is fully capable of dispensing the food to its own citizens once it arrives,” he said. “I see no reason for direct involvement by your military.”

  “Actually, I was thinking in terms of a larger World Food Program mission.” Bowman cleared his throat. “If the U.N. contributes as expected, it’s likely to ask that my country send forces as a component of a multinational disaster relief team. We’d have great difficulty denying such a request.”

  Bashkir shifted in his chair but made no further comment.

  Noting his ramrod-straight posture, the President decided it would be a good time to cut in and break the tension.

  “Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it?” he said, and produced a version of the folksy smile that had served him so well on the stump. He checked his watch, then looked over at the vice president again. “Our parley with Congress starts in less than a half hour. Who can we count on for support?”

  “Senator Sommers from Montana looks strong,” Humes said. “He’s a key man on the Foreign Relations Committee, and has tremendous admiration for Minister Starinov’s efforts to preserve and advance vital economic reforms.”

  Not to mention the fact that his state’s had a bumper grain harvest for the past three years, the President thought.

  “What about on the other side?”

  “Senator Delacroix is sure to oppose. But his own party will be divided on this issue, and I doubt he’ll do much more than grumble.”

  President Ballard nodded.

  “Okay, I think we’re all ready for lunch,” he said in an enthusiastic tone. “I hope I’m not alone here in feeling very good about our prospects.”

  Starinov smiled. “Thank you, my friend. I, too, have confidence — both in your leadership, and the generosity and compassion of your people.”

  He reached across the table, gripped the President’s hand, and shook it vigorously.

  His face expressionless, Bashkir watched them in brittle silence.

  FIVE

  KALININGRAD, RUSSIA OCTOBER 2
6, 1999

  Gregor Sadov moved through the darkness like a thief in the night. But Gregor wasn’t a thief. Not on this mission. He and his team had a larger goal in mind.

  Their target loomed out of the darkness. A low, squat building, it stood less than three stories tall yet took up most of this city block. It was a warehouse, with service entrances on all sides and a loading dock that ran along most of the back. In better, more prosperous times, there had been two shifts of workers, bringing foodstuffs into the warehouse and loading it onto the trucks that passed through in a steady stream.

  But these weren’t prosperous times. These days, the warehouse was less than half-full, and had only a single shift working — a shift that wasn’t due to arrive for another three hours.

  Gregor held up a hand. Around him, his team merged with the shadows surrounding them and froze, waiting for his next command.

  Sadov smiled to himself. This was a new team, but they were improving. After months of intense training, the four who had survived to this point were beginning to show real promise.

  Still smiling, he reached down and unclipped the night vision goggles from his belt. Gregor had spent the last seven nights watching this warehouse, timing the guards, counting the assets arrayed against them, and laying his plans.

  There were fourteen guards, ten on irregular foot patrol within and around the building, the rest up on the rooftop. None of them were hidden. The owners of this warehouse didn’t want their guards to catch anyone; they wanted the guards to scare away thieves and looters, and so kept their presence highly visible.

  The guards were all armed alike, small-bore handguns strapped to their sides and AK-47s in their hands. Gregor was sure that they had riot guns locked in a cabinet somewhere inside as well, but he wasn’t concerned about their weapons. If he and his team found themselves in a position where the guards were likely to fire at them, they had failed in their mission.

  No, it wasn’t the weapons he was most concerned about. It was the K-9 units: one guard with a German Shepherd in each unit. The patrols appeared to be random, but Gregor had noticed that the two dog units managed to always stay on opposite sides of the building.

  That would help. It gave his team a window of approximately two and a half minutes to get in, do their work, and get out. It might be longer than that before one of the guard units passed near their exit, but that was the minimum time they would have.

  It would have to be enough.

  Slipping the goggles into place, he motioned for his team to do the same. Within moments they were set. Now all they had to do was wait.

  It didn’t take long. Gregor was watching intently, tracking the dog unit patrolling the two sides he could see. From its position, he could make a good guess as to where the other unit was.

  Less than three minutes after they’d gotten set, Gregor saw the K-9 unit come into position near the far corner of the building. Reaching down, he hit the squawk button on the small radio attached to his belt, twice. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The double signal was enough.

  On the far side of the building, Nikita, the fifth and last member of his team, silently unlatched the doors on the covered cages she had brought with her. Opening the doors, she pressed a button on a control she had laid on the ground before her, discharging a small battery and sending a mild electrical shock through the floor of the cages. The reaction was immediate as two rabbits darted forward, fleeing the cages and the unexpected pain of the shock.

  They would veer away shortly, she knew, as soon as their pain faded and they became aware of the dogs, but by then it wouldn’t matter. All they had to do was to attract a little attention.

  They did. Just as Gregor had planned. The nearest dog started barking and, moments later, the second one joined in. Nikita smiled softly to herself. Picking up the cages, she melted back into the night to await Gregor’s return.

  Gregor Sadov heard the dogs start barking, but he did not give the command to move forward. Instead, he waited, watching for the moment when, as they had done every night this past week, the guards all turned their heads to see what had gotten the guard dogs so worked up.

  His hand went up, holding his team in check, and then, when the last guard turned away, he formed his hand into a fist and let it drop. Instantly, his team moved forward, keeping to the shadows as much as possible and moving quickly into the warehouse.

  Sadov went with them, leading from the front as he always did.

  Security was light within the warehouse itself. Some of the guards patrolled inside as part of their irregular rounds, but mostly they stayed outside, on display, warning away any who might try and steal the foodstuffs stored within. In times like these, food was worth more than gold — and Gregor was there to drive its value even higher.

  Taking up a position with a good vantage point, he gave the signal for his team to disperse. Outside, the dogs grew silent, but that didn’t matter anymore. Inside the darkened warehouse, Gregor’s team had the advantage over the guards. And soon they would be making their own distraction.

  Through his goggles, Gregor watched as his team scattered through the darkness, dropping their little devices at all the preplanned points. These devices — each a block of paraffin with grain and sawdust mixed in, along with a tiny piezoelectric mechanism that would create a single spark on command — were all Gregor needed to help bring down a regime. At his signal, these devices would ignite. Strategically placed, they would bring a touch of fire to the grain stored here and, within a very short time, the entire place would go up in flames.

  The best part was that no one would ever be able to prove arson. The paraffin was similar enough to the wax sealing many of the crates and cartons, and the sawdust and grain would be indistinguishable from the crates and their contents. Only the piezoelectric devices would stand out, but they were small enough that they would most likely be utterly destroyed when the warehouse burned.

  As his team placed their paraffin blocks, Gregor disabled the sprinkler system. It was old, and hadn’t been tested in years, and probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, but Gregor never took unnecessary chances.

  Gregor was turning away from the sprinkler system, about to head to his next task, when some unexpected movement caught his eye. One of the guards had come in through the far door, and was making his way deeper into the warehouse, toward Gregor’s team.

  That was a problem. One guard would not be able to stop them, but he might be able to get off a shot — and that would bring more guards than Gregor and his team could handle.

  And there was another, bigger problem. Even as Gregor began moving forward, toward the guard, he saw Andrei, the youngest and most impetuous member of his team, also moving toward the guard. And Andrei was drawing his gun.

  Gregor could not allow that. Any shot — whether it came from the guard or from one of Gregor’s men — would draw more guards. For that reason, Gregor would have liked to have had his young team tackle this assignment unarmed… but that would have been tempting fate. Even the best laid plans could go wrong, and his team deserved every chance to survive a screw-up.

  Gregor started to reach for his radio, but it was already too late. He could see Andrei bringing up his pistol.

  Gregor had no choice. He didn’t hesitate. Drawing his gravity knife, he flipped it once in his hand and then threw it.

  He could have gone for the guard, but he didn’t dare. He knew Andrei. Seeing the guard fall, Andrei would have simply assumed that he was ducking, and would have fired anyway. So Gregor did the only thing he could do. He threw the knife at Andrei.

  The heavy blade went into Andrei’s throat, but Gregor wasn’t watching. As soon as he threw the knife, he started moving once more, heading toward the guard.

  Andrei grunted, already strangling on his own blood. The guard, hearing the faint noise, started to turn, and Gregor’s hands closed around his neck. A squeeze, a twist, and the guard was dead, moments before Andrei, too, died.

&nbs
p; “Shit,” Gregor said, softly. He lifted a crate from a nearby pile and leaned it against the guard’s neck. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he could do on such short notice. Besides, it wasn’t necessary to convince the authorities that this was an accident.

  His job was to set this fire without making it obvious that it was arson. With luck and the usual Russian incompetence, the fire would still look like an accident. But if not, it wouldn’t matter. The people were starving and terrified. Even if the government pieced the puzzle together, they wouldn’t dare announce that these fires were deliberate. Not unless they wanted to start the very panic they were working so hard to avoid.

  Turning to Andrei, Gregor retrieved his blade, cleaned it and sheathed it, and then hoisted Andrei’s body onto his shoulder. The rest of the team had finished placing their blocks, and it was time to leave.

  Gregor settled Andrei’s body more comfortably on his shoulder and gave the signal to withdraw. His team met him at the door farthest from where the fire would begin. None of them said a word, but from the way they looked at the body he was carrying, Gregor knew they had all learned a valuable lesson tonight. None of them offered to carry the body.

  Standing in the darkness beside the door, looking out into the night for signs of any guards, Gregor reached into his pocket and pressed the ignition switch. Moments later, he caught the first faint whiff of smoke.

  The guards reacted quickly — more quickly than he’d expected — but that was good. The fire was already too well set for them to stop, and their quick response only let Gregor’s team slip out that much sooner, and increased their slim safety margin. Gregor knew grain, and how it burned, and he wanted to be well away from this area before the fire really got going.

  Once more, he gave the signal to move out. Their job here was done, and Gregor had a report to call in. His masters would be very pleased with this night’s work, and with the work Gregor and his team would do over the next few days.