Valentin sat forward and responded thoughtfully.
“That is hard to say. General. The mood in Moscow is a strange one these days. Impatience and frustration run rampant everywhere. It is even prevalent in the Premier’s office. One day the talk is of the vital necessity of reaching an arms-limitation agreement with the West, and the next day we are all smiles over the development of yet another new nuclear warhead that will hold the Imperialist hordes at bay for the next decade. This swing in policy is impossible to gauge, although I feel it will be forced to attain some stability when the American Secretary of State arrives in Moscow next week. Rumor has it that the Secretary will be carrying with him a major arms concession by the U.S. President. If that’s the case, it could make that disarmament treaty a reality.”
Solemnly, Sobolev interjected, “I wouldn’t be surprised, comrade. Don’t forget those photos you still hold in your hand. The Imperialists know when they’ve been licked. Their latest missiles explode in the air, while their most advanced submarines sink to the ocean’s depths. The Motherland has sacrificed much to attain our present position of strategic superiority.
And now the Americans will come begging for peace. What a waste it will be to negate our people’s efforts for the signing of a stupid, meaningless treaty.”
At that moment, the general appeared tired and ready to concede defeat. Valentin couldn’t help but feel compassion for the old-timer. After all, the man before him was a hero in all senses of the word. His vision shouldn’t be so easily ignored. Though part of him urged his inner self to hold his tongue, Valentin spoke out anyway.
“I shouldn’t be sharing this with you. General, but I think it could affect your plan’s acceptance in Moscow. Several days ago, I came across a top-secret intelligence briefing while organizing the Premier’s desk. Though it wasn’t intended for my eyes, I skimmed it anyway. The report concerned the American reconnaissance satellite program. It indicated that there were only a pair of Keyholes available in the U.S. ground inventory. But now this photograph that our cosmonauts have relayed to us shows that one of these replacement units is no more. Perhaps if you were to devise a plan to eliminate the remaining Keyhole, the Premier would look at your plan with new eyes. As I told you before, his mood is most fickle of late. But in no way could he simply ignore the situation that the fates have so kindly handed us.
With the U.S. completely blind to our preparation, maybe a limited surprise attack would indeed have a chance of success. At the very least it warrants more study.”
“That’s just what I wanted to hear!” exclaimed Sobolev emotionally.
“I knew that I had been most fortunate when I was told that you would be the one coming down from Moscow. Radchenko, my friend, you have lived up to your reputation as one of the brightest minds in the Kremlin. No wonder the Premier depends on you so. I can never thank you enough for sharing the secrets of your soul with me.
The least I can do is offer you another sip of our Motherland’s blood.”
Nodding that this was tine with him, Valentin looked on as the general refilled their glasses and toasted.
“To that lucky star that brought us together! Because of our meeting, the dreams of our forefathers will at long last be realized. Tarry just a little bit longer, you slaves of Capitalism. Your yokes shall soon be cut and all men will finally be equal!”
Tossing the fiery liquor down his throat, Vadim Sobolev anxiously stirred. The time for his dream’s fruition had arrived after all. He only had to think up a simple scheme to destroy the final Keyhole. With the invaluable assistance of the young bureaucrat who sat beside him, the Premier would then be approached, and final approval would soon be his. Most aware of what this would mean, he looked again at the map of the world that graced his wall. Substituting massive, mushroomshaped clouds for its red flags, his inner vision sharpened. He couldn’t help but pity the poor Americans, for they would never know what hit them.
On the other side of the world, the dawn was just breaking over the northeastern coast of South America.
The morning was already proving to be another hot and muggy one as the thirty-eight-foot sailboat belonging to Colonel Jean Moreau cut through the crystal-clear blue waters of the Atlantic. Perched on the vessel’s stern, with its tiller in hand, the boat’s six-foot, four-inch owner stood ever alert to the changing wind patterns. An expert sailor, Moreau scanned the seas and the skies in an effort to read Mother Nature’s fickle mind.
Even after fifty-three years of life, Moreau remained an excellent physical specimen. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he stood his watch in only a worn pair of khaki shorts. His present environment’s perpetually hot, steamy climate made such minimal attire both comfortable and practical.
The only feature that hinted at his advanced age was a full head of close-cropped, salt-and-pepper colored hair. It seemed that, to the women, this sprinkling of gray only served to make him appear more distinguished. Contrasted with his deeply bronzed skin, it enhanced his already ruggedly handsome face and superbly toned body. Of course, there could be no ignoring the fine lines that gathered around his eyes and neck. Yet Moreau never let their development bother him. To the colonel, age was but a relative number. Living life to its fullest extent was the secret to delaying the reaper’s inevitable call.
A frothing line of surf slapped against the boat’s hull, and Moreau rode out the resulting swell with an expertise honed by many hours at sea. As always, the fresh ocean air had an invigorating effect on him. He was feeling relaxed and mentally at peace since his two-day fishing excursion had been a great success.
Not only was the boat’s refrigerated locker filled with a half-dozen tasty yellowtail, four fat bonita, and a small hammerhead. In addition, his mind had been far away from the pressures of his everyday job. As it turned out, it wasn’t only his success with a rod and reel that had helped achieve this rare state of relaxation.
For below deck, in the main cabin, lay a catch of a completely different kind.
Theresa was a precocious seventeen year old whom Moreau had been employing for less than three weeks. She had signed on as a maid, but it hadn’t taken much time for the pert Brazilian to find her way to her master’s bed. Small-boned and with petite, dark features, Theresa didn’t even come up to Moreau’s shoulders. Yet what she lacked in stature she more than adequately made up for in passion.
It had been years since the colonel had come across a young woman with such a voracious sexual appetite.
Though the length and width of his manhood had never generated a complaint before, Theresa couldn’t seem to get enough of him. The previous night’s lovemaking had proven no different.
They had been anchored off the infamous Devil’s Island. There, palm trees and thick scrub had long since covered any evidence of the manmade hellhole that used to scar this innocent-looking archipelago.
After a delicious dinner of fresh sauteed yellowtail, brown rice, and steamed zucchini squash, they had proceeded to finish off the good portion of a full liter of rum from the boat’s fantail. Theresa spoke a credible French, and it was in this language that he had gotten to know a little bit more about her upbringing.
Born in the coastal town of Fortaleia, Theresa had been raised in a middle-class family. Her father had been an engineer with the state’s petroleum development board, and as such spent at least three-quarters of the year in the Brazilian jungle far from home.