Banich frowned. The fat man’s fear of his nation’s revitalized internal security services was growing fast. If he kept pressing Sorokin so hard, the bureaucrat might decide it would be safer to turn in the man he knew as Nikolai Ushenko for espionage and take his chances with accusations of corruption and bribe-taking.
“Well, well, Mr. Ushenko. Come to visit us again?” A languid, arrogant voice made Banich turn around.
He recognized the lean, aristocratic officer instantly, remembering that chilling, unnerving meeting last October. A meeting that had come only days before Russia’s civilian leaders “handed over” the reins of government to their soldiers.
Col. Valentin Soloviev was one of Marshal Kaminov’s top military aides. Reportedly he was also the man the marshal relied on for “dirty” work of almost any kind — organizing executions, purging suspect officers, and the like.
Banich forced himself to smile. “It’s good to see you, Colonel.”
“Of course.” Soloviev arched a straw-colored eyebrow. “And what brings you here, Mr. Ushenko? Business?”
Banich nodded politely. “That’s right. I’m trying to drum up a few more government contracts.”
“A merchant who wants to sell more of his goods at a loss? Interesting.” Soloviev stepped closer. “You are a very curious specimen, Mr. Ushenko. Unique, in fact.”
The American kept his mouth shut. There wasn’t any safe reply to the colonel’s barely disguised probe.
Soloviev looked him up and down for a long moment. Then he smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his cold gray eyes. “I think you would be most unwise to keep haunting these halls, Mr. Ushenko. If I were you, I would pursue other, more profitable endeavors instead. Endeavors that do not involve Manager Sorokin or any other ministry officials. Some men I know, very unsympathetic men, are growing very interested in Manager Sorokin’s hyperactive financial dealings. They are beginning to wonder what he is selling to reap such rich rewards. You understand?”
The elevator arrived.
When the doors shut on the tall Russian colonel, Banich breathed out in relief, conscious of having escaped with his cover still intact, if only just. Then he frowned, puzzled. Had Soloviev been trying to intimidate him — or to warn him? But why would one of Kaminov’s top men give a damn about a Ukrainian merchant? He was still mulling that over when the elevator reached the ground floor. Well, warning or intimidation, the colonel’s words locked him out of the Defense Ministry as surely as any padlock.
Surrounded by a brick wall topped with barbed wire, the Royal Navy’s headquarters building was made from the same pale bricks. It wasn’t a particularly impressive-looking structure, but looks do not always indicate importance.
Northwood, headquarters for the shrinking Royal Navy, now also held staffs from the U.S., Norwegian, and Polish navies. Although there had been some spare office space, the place was now packed to the point where it spilled over into several rented trailers parked on the grounds.
Vice Admiral Jack Ward’s offices were definitely not in a trailer. In fact, he and his personal staff had been given some of the nicest rooms in the headquarters. Only Admiral of the Fleet Sir Geoffrey Stone, the Royal Navy’s operational commander in chief, could lay claim to better. Not that the American really minded the First Sea Lord’s more elaborate quarters. If he’d had his druthers, he’d still be out at sea. But orchestrating a coordinated air and sea campaign across all of northern Europe required more officers and communications gear than he could effectively cram aboard an aircraft carrier or missile cruiser.
At the moment, Ward sat in Northwood’s freshly painted conference room, an elegant setting with wooden wainscoting and furniture that looked older than every man in it combined. Some of the room’s furnishings had to have come from the admiralty building itself. As he listened to the morning briefing, he couldn’t help wondering if Admiral Howe had planned his voyage to the rebellious American colonies at this very table two centuries before. A rare sense of tact had kept him from asking one of the British sea officers.
The news was bad. Losses were still high in the North Sea, and the chance of getting anything through to the Poles and Czechs was virtually nil.
Their latest attempt to break the blockade had come to a bloody end.
Two high-speed ships, loaded to the gunwales with badly needed ammunition and spare parts, and armed with jury-rigged defenses, had tried to use night and bad weather to run the gauntlet. Combined Forces Headquarters, the organization controlling U.S., British, and Norwegian units operating in the war zone, had supported the attempt with diversions, probing attacks, and one heavy strike against the EurCon base at Wilhelmshaven.
It had all been for naught. A German U-boat had ambushed and torpedoed both merchantmen near the Skagerrak, with a heavy loss of life. And although the American air attack on Wilhelmshaven had been a success, the moderate damage they’d inflicted could be repaired in a short time. Meanwhile the rest of the EurCon military machine was still intact.
Of course those two merchant ships hadn’t represented the only allied link to Eastern Europe. Cargo planes, flying circuitous routes under heavy escort, were managing to keep a trickle of supplies flowing. But, heavily tanked, and flying long-range, low-altitude flights, their payloads couldn’t begin to meet Polish, Czech, and Hungarian needs. The ships he’d ordered through the gauntlet had carried a hundred planeloads.
With last night’s disaster fresh in mind, Ward was confident that his proposal, reluctantly approved by all three governments, was the correct military decision. Until Combined Forces strength was greater, there would be no more resupply runs.
The only comforting part of the morning’s brief was news about the steady supply of matériel coming from the United States.
George Washington and her escorts were already under his operational control. A second carrier battle group, centered on Theodore Roosevelt, had sailed from Norfolk two days after the shooting started. It was due in range tomorrow.
Vinson, in the yards when the crisis broke, was being hurriedly put back together. CINCLANTFLT had promised him she’d arrive in a little over a week.
The problem was that Poland might not last a week.
The briefer finished up with a long list of air force squadrons, supplies, and personnel arriving in the next twenty-four hours.
George Washington, as previously arranged, was now covering British and Norwegian ASW patrols, as well as adding her own planes to the effort. Special training plans were under way, and arrangements for housing and security were proceeding swiftly, if not always smoothly.
When the briefing broke up, the room began clearing out. Lieutenant Harada, his flag secretary, worked his way through the bustle. He looked worried, and he was careful to speak softly. “Captain Zagloba is waiting for you in your office, Admiral. He says it’s urgent.”
Zagloba was the Polish naval liaison to Combined Forces Headquarters. He was also the senior Polish military man outside his country right now. Harada’s tone implied trouble.
“Did he tell you why he wants to see me?”
“No, sir, but he looks upset.”
Ward nodded. If Harada’s face was any indication, the Pole must be near exploding. He affected a relaxed air. “Well, the captain has a lot to be upset about. Let’s see what’s on his mind.”
Ward’s office, even more richly appointed than the conference room, was a comfortable place to wait, but that didn’t seem to have soothed Captain Kazimierz Zagloba in the slightest.