“And the Navy?” asked Admiral Levachevsky.
“For transport, support operations and intelligence gathering, yes. But to the extent that the Navy exists to inflict mortal damage on the enemy, it too is a thing of the past.”
Afterward Vasyutin, who happened to be Adjarian’s father-in-law, came to the Colonel’s office, closed the door and sat down rather heavily. “Arpad,” he said, “I am very tired. Be so kind as to give me a cigarette.”
Adjarian pushed the cigarette box across his desk and offered a lighter.
Puffing smoke, Vasyutin resumed, “You know, I couldn’t help thinking as you spoke that the problem you described so well is even more acute in internal security than in the armed forces. After all, one has to fight a war every fifteen or twenty years, but security matters go on by day and night.”
“True, Trofim Semyonich,” said Adjarian, “but fortunately that’s not your concern or mine.”
“No, it isn’t. But I think you should know that unusual deaths among the KGB have been a matter for serious concern in the Kremlin for over a year. There have also been some unexplained fatalities in the Party apparatus in Volgograd, in Novosibirsk, and other places. This is not public knowledge, of course, and I count on your discretion.”
“Of course, that goes without saying.”
“How is Natashka, by the way? And the children?”
“Very well, thank you. Petya is a big boy now, you would not recognize him.”
“I wanted to get out to see you all while I was here, but it’s impossible. I am flying back to Moscow in an hour.” Vasyutin drew meditatively on his cigarette. After a moment he went on, “I’m inclined to believe you when you say the virus is responsible. As you say, one hypothesis is more fantastic than the other, but this one is a little less fantastic. What worries me is the question, can the state be held together without violence?” He waved a hand. “Don’t bother to tell me that it ought to be. My question is, can it be?”
Adjarian was silent.
Vasyutin continued for a moment in English, “You know, perhaps, what Dr. Samuel Johnson said? ‘Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.’ Of course he didn’t mean that patriotism is a bad thing, but in fact it is one of the worst things in the world. Patriotism is that emotion that persuades young men to be killed in a war; it has no other use. We are taught to love our country, but as I grow older, I realize more and more that one cannot love a country, only land and people.
“Now I’m going to tell you something else, and this you must regard as absolutely confidential. Somehow the rumors of these KGB deaths have got out. There have been incidents . . . Last week in Moscow a gang of hooligans attacked a ‘bread truck’ in broad daylight, pulled out the driver and two guards, beat them up, and released five prisoners while a crowd watched. They are still at large, both the hooligans and the prisoners. What I want to know is, if there are no prisoners and no jailers, can there be a Russian state? Well, well, Arpad, we live in interesting times, to be sure.” He stood up. “Until later, dear boy. Give my love to Natalya.”
Adjarian went home to his dacha, greeted his wife and children, and sat down in the garden with a pipe to wait for supper. Comforting sounds and smells came from the kitchen. The apple tree was in bloom; the evening sky was pure. A mood of melancholy came over him: how terrible it would be to leave all this!
He was just over forty, a rising man with solid accomplishments behind him. Arms, strategy, tactics, military history and philosophy, however, were all he knew. The words of his father-in-law came back to him: “If there are no prisoners and no jailors, can there be a Russian state?”
Or, for that matter, any state?
Adjarian considered himself a realist, and he knew that the problems they were facing went far beyond the military aspect.
If his views were correct they would eventually prevail, and his position would be more secure than ever. But if the foundations of the Republic were crumbling?
Adjarian thought of the brutally repressed “Moscow Spring” of seventeen years ago, of the Gulag and Lubyanka Prison, the censorship of newspapers, the gray hand of bureaucracy everywhere. As an Armenian, he knew exactly how much love for the Russians there was in the Autonomous Okrugs still remaining within the Russian Federated Socialist Republic. What if the state could no longer keep ethnic and nationalist enthusiasm under control? Or what if, in spite of everything, patriotism became outmoded—war itself impossible?
In the house he heard Piotr quarreling with his sister. Then his wife’s calm voice, and after a moment a burst of laughter. Adjarian smiled.
6
One morning Dwayne Swarts called Italiano and asked her to lunch. “I warn you I want to ask for a favor,” he said.
They met in the staff dining room at one. “I’ll get right to the point,” said Swarts. “I have a patient I think you might help me with. His name is Geoffrey Barlow-Geller; he’s four years old. Emotional lability, inappropriate behavior in class, doesn’t interact with the other children. Intelligence tests are ambiguous because of his attention span, but my guess is he’s normal or above. They did a workup on him before they sent him to me; no physical problems.”
“I know the parents, and I’ve seen Geoffrey from a distance. What do they say?”
“He’s always been like this. Weepy, very dependent, hard to deal with. I asked them if there’s anything that seems to calm him down, and they told me he likes three things. He likes being held, he likes noisy toys, and he likes loud music. I’ve tried to persuade him to tell me what’s bothering him, and all he’ll say is, ‘Too much talking.’ I heard that the obvious way at first, but then it turns out that he says the same thing when he’s been crying in his room all by himself. What does that sound like to you, just offhand?”
“Paranoid schiz? Voices in his head?”
“It might be. If I can’t think of anything else, I’m going to have to start him on a course of carphenazine.”
“Well, Dwayne, what can I do?”
“You’ve hypnotized children, haven’t you?”
“Yes, occasionally.”
“Okay, I know it’s a long shot, but I’d like you to put him into trance and see if you can find out if he does hear voices. If that isn’t it, I don’t want to give him inappropriate medication. Can you do it—have you got time?”
“Yes, I’ll try.”
Geoffrey Barlow-Geller was an unattractive little boy —head too big for his body, nose runny, eyelids pink and swollen. He cried when his mother left him in Italiano’s office, and put his hands over his ears when she tried to talk to him. Eventually she got his attention with a toy robot that whirred and blinked its eyes. She let him play with it awhile, then put it on the desk and stopped the motor.
“See the robot, Geoffrey? Look how bright its eyes are. Look at the robot’s eyes, they’re getting brighter and brighter, aren’t they? Keep on looking at the robot’s eyes, and now you can feel that you’re getting sleepy. You’re getting sleepier and sleepier, and now you feel like closing your eyes. Yes, and now you’re getting sleepier, but you can still hear my voice ...”