‘You mean he’s worried we’d go off and do this thing on our own.’
‘Is that true?’ Jacobson asked the Russian. ‘The Romeo Protocol is meant to be an expression of trust between our two countries. The very highest expression, in fact.’
‘Really, Mr Jacobson?’ Shabanov enquired. ‘Imagine our surprise, then, when we found that Spetsnaz, the Soviet Union’s elite, was to work with a unit that had disgraced itself in Panama. A unit that is now exiled in the wastes of the New Mexico desert. Is that your highest expression of trust, Mr Jacobson?’
‘Now wait a minute — ’
Ulm raised his hand. ‘Forget it, Jacobson. Why pretend?’ He turned to Shabanov. ‘What are you saying, exactly?’
The Russian smiled. ‘Whatever your worth in the eyes of the Pentagon, Elliot, I have complete faith in you and your Pathfinders. I want you to know that.’
The declaration made Ulm feel no less uneasy. He felt disoriented, unsure as to which of these two men was his best ally.
‘All right, Roman. Let’s talk tactics. You and me. Alone.’ Ulm turned to Jacobson. ‘Give me a day and I’ll let you know if this thing’s workable or not. After that, it’s in your hands.’
The waitress with the Texan drawl and endless legs came over to the table to take their order. Ulm asked for another beer, while Shabanov stuck to bourbon. Ulm noticed the girl’s lingering looks over Shabanov’s athletic body. Even out of uniform, the Russian was a striking man.
Ulm, at something under five feet and nine inches, with a twice-broken nose, short, thinning hair, and the body of a prize-fighter past his prime, couldn’t exactly say the same about himself, but he never begrudged his somewhat brutish looks. His womanizing days had been over for a long time. He admired the waitress’s ass, delicately hidden as it was by the tassels of her miniskirt, as she disappeared off to the bar. Marriage had been good to Elliot Ulm, but it hadn’t stopped him looking.
The low-lit bar of the small, seedy hotel across the street from TERCOM was in stark contrast to the helicopter gunships, assault rifles, stun grenades, and other hallmarks of low-intensity conflict that the two of them had discussed all afternoon in the cold isolation of the briefing-room.
By the end of the day, both he and Shabanov had a good idea of the sort of resources they would need.
The piped muzak delivered its rendition of a song Ulm recalled from his college days. It was the third time it had come round that evening. The only other drinkers in the room got up to leave as if in protest. Apart from the waitress, he and Shabanov were the last occupants of the room. It was fast approaching one in the morning.
During the afternoon, Shabanov had drawn sketches of the terrorist camp, marking its location at the end of a steep-sided valley, the dimensions of the compound and the layout of the buildings, and its defences. The Russian had announced his intention to build a facsimile of the terrorist encampment close to their training base, so that Spetsnaz and the Pathfinders could practise their assault until perfect. It seemed a good idea. Ulm wished he could say the same for TERCOM’s overall strategy. There was something inherently wrong about doing business with the Bear.
‘The war’s over, Elliot.’
Ulm wondered if mind-reading figured amongst the Russian’s many talents. ‘For some people.’
The Russian waved his glass theatrically. ‘Where do you stand?’
‘I’m paid to obey orders. Some are good, others suck. But they’re there to be carried out. It’ll take time for us to adjust.’
Shabanov leant forward conspiratorially. ‘That’s why our task is so important. A joint mission in a field as sensitive as special operations is truly historic. And a rescue operation, more so. Everyone talks about the new world order, but there will be no law, no order in that world without policemen. Don’t you see, Elliot? This mission, once it is announced, will show the world that Russia and the United States will have earned the right to be the guardians of the new law.’
‘As long as people like your General Vorobyov exist, you can stick that in a book of dreams.’ Just a few days before, Major-General Vorobyov had given an interview more or less advocating a return to the Cold War. It had fed the fears of alarmists in most US newspapers who feared another coup.
‘Ah, but Vorobyov is a reactionary.’
‘Who believes your President’s policy of ‘reasonable sufficiency’ in defence is a joke. That’s a dangerous kind of reaction.’
‘Vorobyov and men like him have retired. We are the new generation.’ Shabanov shrugged. ‘Of course, when I was a younger man I shared some of their sentiments. But you have to see things in perspective. We believed NATO was our bitter enemy. We were conditioned to think that way. As a soldier I have always obeyed my orders without question, as you would expect. When I was recruited into our special forces it was a different time, like a dark age for us. What you saw at Ryazan bears little resemblance to the school I entered almost twenty years ago.’
Shabanov took another sip of bourbon, rolling the alcohol on his tongue. ‘I remember the day the commandant accused me of stealing another recruit’s food. In front of the whole school he told me to stick my fingers down my throat and empty my stomach onto the frozen earth of the parade ground. We were treated worse than dogs, our hearts filled with malice, ready to discharge it against the enemies of Communism. A lot has changed…’
‘What made you change?’
‘Afghanistan.’
Ulm noticed a slight slurring of the word. ‘Why?’
‘Nine years of… special reconnaissance, that’s why.’ He took another pull from the glass. ‘At least, that’s what we called it. Hill fighting, close-quarter work, scouting, forward air control, designating guerrilla targets for our jet bombers… all in a day’s work.’
Shabanov stared into his glass. ‘Some of the men went insane and there were suicides.’ He snorted. ‘Not during the war, you understand. When we got back. Those fucking peaceniks. To them, special reconnaissance was rape, murder, burning, looting…’ He emphasized each one by thumping his fist on the table. ‘For a while, the radical papers were full of it. I think we Afghantsi deserved better, but glasnost consigned us to the rubbish heap. Only Bitov, my senior sergeant, and I remain from my platoon of 79.’ He drained his glass. ‘Glasnost has a lot to answer for.’
‘Maybe General Vorobyov hasn’t retired after all,’ Ulm whispered.
‘Huh?’
‘Nothing.’ Ulm felt like someone had just walked over his grave.
The waitress approached with the check. Shabanov made no move to pick up the tab, but that didn’t bother the American. It had been made clear to him by USSOCOM that the Russian was their guest in all matters. Judging from the figure at the bottom of the check, Shabanov wasn’t looking the gift horse in the mouth. Ulm’s head told him he hadn’t exactly held back on the beers either.
He looked up to find Shabanov standing over the waitress, a good head taller than her, in spite of her legs. She held his gaze, as if he had her in a kind of spell. Ulm blamed the surrealism of the scene on the number of beers he had drunk, but something in her eyes made him look again, lower this time. Shabanov had pulled her skirt around her midriff and was moving his hand up the inside of her thighs towards her paper-thin panties. It was at that moment that Ulm realized that what he thought he had read as complicity in her eyes was in fact a look of horror and revulsion. Then, like an animal breaking the lock of a car headlight beam, she brought her hand up and slapped him hard round the face.
The waitress ran crying from the room and Shabanov tilted his head at Ulm, laughter rocking his body. Ulm pulled the Russian from the hotel into the rain. He hailed a taxi, ordering the driver first to the Soviet Embassy, where he deposited Shabanov, then to TERCOM, where he would spend the night.