Shumayev, as close to Brezhnev and the reins of government as he was, had power too. But for this moment he bowed to Turalin.
“There is someone who wishes to speak with you,” Shumayev said.
“Then we will proceed?”
“It would appear so. But it depends upon you. Do you feel convincing this evening?”
Turalin shook his head in exasperation. The man was a pompous, arrogant fool.
“I’m with you, Vadim Leonid, in other words,” Shumayev said. He leaned closer. “And no matter what you may think of me, I am a man to have as a friend in this.”
Shumayev’s chauffeur drove fast but skillfully through the deserted Moscow streets. The smell of the lovely spring that had been and of the summer that was approaching lay thick in the air. And a haze, or a light fog, had settled in over the great city. Turalin wondered who he was supposed to meet tonight.
If too many people knew what he was involved in, it would ruin everything. There were bound to be leaks. And it was such a delicately balanced operation, that even the slightest leak could be deadly.
As First Directorate chief, Turalin was responsible for all Soviet clandestine activities abroad, and he ran a very tight ship, accepting absolutely no excuses from those beneath him. An operation either succeeded brilliantly, as planned, or he knew the reason why, and heads rolled.
But in dealing with those outside the First Directorate his control was less than absolute, and then he often became frustrated. He was frustrated now.
“How did you come to learn of this operation?” he asked sharply.
“Comrade Brezhnev asked me to look in on it.”
“As a control?” Turalin asked, concealing fury. He knew that he should maintain civility. But he found it difficult.
“Don’t overstep your bounds,” Shumayev said harshly.
Control. Turalin sank into his own thoughts. Control was everything within the Soviet hierarchy, from the lowliest corporal stationed on the Chinese border to Brezhnev himself who answered to the Central Committee.
Control in itself was an intrinsically sound idea. But in practice the bureaucracies it spawned were monstrous, and often self-defeating.
Control, he would accept. A committee he would not. And yet… another thought came to him. Brezhnev himself did not know all of the pieces of this puzzle, nor would anyone until the operation was firmly in place. By then it would be too late. Far too late, he thought with satisfaction.
As they passed the All-Union Agricultural Exhibition on the north side of town and continued out into the country, Turalin turned the operation over in his mind.
It was all a vast game of chess. Only the pieces were real men, and the stakes actual life or death. But, as in a game of chess, the king played no part in the attack. Other pieces, such as the knights, were far more powerful.
A dangerous game, he cautioned himself. The risks were high, but the rewards…. He smiled.
It was dark now in the car. Through the haze outside he could see the sparse birch forests on both sides of the road, white on black. And he imagined that he could hear the wind sighing through the upper branches. A sound that was at once lonely, yet comforting; cold, yet gently warm.
Indeed, he thought. The board had been laid out, the chess pieces set in place. This evening would see the opening moves.
The dacha was set on several hundred acres beside a small manmade lake. It was a large, very old house, with etched-glass windows, a half-dozen massive brick chimneys, dormers, and a large porch, the roof of which was supported by ornately carved wooden pillars.
There were no other automobiles in sight when the Zil pulled up in front and the chauffeur jumped out to open the rear doors. Turalin stepped out, his boots crunching on the loose gravel of the driveway.
It was quiet out here. The fog’s wispy tendrils among the trees, and low across the lake, lent the place even more isolation and detachment than it actually had.
Turalin stared up at the house. He recognized this place. He had seen it before. But when?
“Lovely old place, isn’t it?” Shumayev asked good-naturedly.
“Lovely,” Turalin agreed absently.
Shumayev took his arm, and as they mounted the steps to the porch, the memory suddenly came to Turalin. He did know this place; he had seen photographs of it. And the realization was startling.
“He requested your presence here,” Shumayev said, sensing Turalin’s sudden understanding and emphasizing the first word, almost as if he spoke of a god.
Inside they went directly into a large room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases along three walls and a massive fireplace in the fourth. A fire blazed in the grate, making the room almost unbearably hot.
Several deeply padded leather chairs were grouped around a massive oak coffee table. Shumayev directed Turalin to take a seat.
“Vodka?” he asked. “Or perhaps a little cognac?”
“Cognac,” Turalin said sitting down.
Shumayev poured his drink and then set down.
There was a large painting above the mantel, a Van Gogh perhaps, and the bookcases held numerous statues, medals encased in frames, and other bric-a-brac as well as books. The floor was covered with a huge Persian rug, and in a far corner was a standup writing table, such as accountants might have used long ago.
“You have done a fine job with your directorate, Vadim Leonid,” Shumayev said almost casually.
In the light now Turalin could clearly see the man. He was large but shapeless, like a sad lump of clay. His eyes were set deep beneath a simian ridge of bone, and his puffy cheeks were crisscrossed with broken veins. He was disgusting.
“We manage,” Turalin grumbled.
“I have an admission to make to you.”
Turalin said nothing to the man’s inane prattling. Instead he was listening to the sounds of the house. Somewhere in the distance, he thought he could hear someone talking. From elsewhere came the sound of an electric motor running, and he also thought he could hear music.
“You have been presented for promotion twice in the last two years. Each time I’ve recommended no. You have been doing such valuable work where you are, it would have been a shame to remove you.”
“Promotion to what?” Turalin asked.
“To the third floor, of course.”
“As a Komitet deputy?”
Shumayev flared. “You would do well to curb your tongue…” he had begun, when the library door opened and the First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union walked in, bringing both Shumayev and Turalin to their feet.
He was a tall man, husky, with a wide face and large peasant eyes set beneath bushy eyebrows. He was not smiling.
“Leave us now, Anatoli Andreyevich,” he said. His voice came from deep within his chest. But it was soft.
“Of course,” Shumayev said, and he left the room, gently closing the door behind him.
“Have a seat, comrade,” the First Secretary said, his voice cold. He poured himself a small cognac. “Your family is well?”
“Yes, they are, Comrade First Secretary. I will tell them you asked.”
“You will not,” the First Secretary said, sitting down across from Turalin. “No one will know that we have spoken.”
“Of course,” Turalin said, looking the man in the eyes. He felt as if he were very near a high-tension line. The slightest wrong move on his part would be instantly fatal.
“It is not too warm in here for your liking?”
“It is fine, comrade.”
The First Secretary shook his head, then took a small, delicate sip of his drink. “We must not begin on the wrong foot, Vadim Leonid. I am an old man, and not well, but I still have full use of my faculties, unlike poor Shumayev who is afraid for his own skin.”