"So would I," said Air Force General Dhaka. His gray eyes glared from beneath a heavy brow. "Any one of us would make a formidable opposition leader. Why should we back you? You promised us a cooperative action with Ukraine. So far, we've only seen a few Russian infantry maneuvers near the border which Zhanin himself quickly approved. Even if joint maneuvers take place, what does that accomplish? Old Soviet brothers are reunited, and the West trembles a little. How will that help us to rebuild Russia? If we're to join you we must have specifics."
Dogin looked at the General. Dhaka's full cheeks were flushed, his pendulous chin raw where it met his tightly knotted tie. The Minister knew that the specifics would send most of them rallying behind Mavik or even running to Zhanin.
He looked at each of the men in turn. In most faces he saw conviction and strength, while in others— Mavik and Grovlev in particular— he saw interest but wariness. Their hesitation angered him because he was the only one who offered Russia salvation. Yet he remained calm.
"You want specifics?" Dogin asked. He typed a command on the computer keyboard then swung the monitor so it faced the seven men. As the hard disk hummed, the Interior Minister looked at his father's picture. The elder Dogin had been a decorated soldier during the War, and one of Stalin's most trusted bodyguards afterward. He once told his son that during the War he had learned to carry only one thing with him: the country's flag. Wherever he was, in any circumstance, in any danger, it would always find him a friend or ally.
When the disk drive fell silent, Dogin and five men rose at once. Mavik and Grovlev exchanged suspicious looks, then slowly got to their feet. Both men saluted.
"This is how I plan to rebuild Russia," Dogin said. He came around the desk and pointed to the image that filled the computer monitor, a yellow star, hammer, and sickle on a red field— the old Soviet flag. "By reminding people of their duty. Patriots will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary, whatever the plan and regardless of the cost."
The men sat down, save for Grovlev.
"We're all patriots," said the Finance Minister, "and I resent the theatrics. If I'm to put my resources in your hands, I want to know how they'll be used. For a coup? A second revolution? Or don't you trust us with this information, Mr. Minister?"
Dogin looked at Grovlev. He couldn't tell him everything. He couldn't tell him about his plans for the military or his involvement with the Russian mafia. Most Russians thought that they were still a provincial peasant people without a worldview. Upon hearing his plans, Grovlev might back down or decide to support Zhanin.
Dogin said, "Mr. Minister, I don't trust you."
Grovlev stiffened.
"And from your questions," Dogin continued, "it's obvious you don't trust me either. I intend to earn that trust through deeds, and you must do the same. Zhanin knows who his enemies are, and now he has the power of the presidency. He may offer you a post or an appointment you may be tempted to take. And you might then be required to work against me. For the next seventy-two hours, I must ask you to be patient."
"Why seventy-two hours?" asked the young, blue-eyed Ministry of Security Assistant Director Skule.
"That's how long it will take for my command center to become operational."
Skule froze. "Seventy-two hours? You can't mean St. Petersburg. "
Dogin nodded once.
"You control that?"
He nodded again.
Skule exhaled and the other men looked at him. "My most sincere compliments, Minister. That puts the entire world in your hands."
"Quite literally," Dogin grinned. "Just like General Secretary Stalin."
"Excuse me," said Grovlev, "but once again I'm on the outside looking in. Minister Dogin, what exactly is this 'thing' you control?"
"The St. Petersburg Operations Center," Dogin replied, "the most sophisticated reconnaissance and communications facility in Russia. With it, we can access everything from satellite views of the world to electronic communications. The Center also has its own field personnel for 'surgical strike' operations."
Grovlev seemed confused. "Are you talking about the television station at the Hermitage?"
"Yes," Dogin said. "It's a front, Minister Grovlev. Your ministry approved the finances for an operational facade, a working TV studio. But the money for the underground complex came from my department. And the funding continues to come from the Interior Ministry." Dogin thumbed his chest. "From me."
Grovlev sat back down. "You've been planning this operation for quite some time."
"For over two years," Dogin replied. "We go online Monday night."
"And this Center," said Dhaka. "It's your command post for more than simply spying on Zhanin during these seventy-two hours."
"Very much more than spying," said Dogin.
"But you won't tell us what!" Grovlev huffed. "You want our cooperation but you won't cooperate!"
Dogin said ominously, "You want me to confide in you, Mr. Minister? Fair enough. For the past six months, my man in the Operations Center has been using personnel as well as the electronics that were already installed to watch all of my potential allies as well as my rivals. We've collected a great deal of information about graft, liaisons, and" — he glared at Grovlev— "unusual personal interests. I'll be happy to share this information with you collectively or individually, now or later."
Some of the men moved uneasily in their chairs. Grovlev sat rock-still.
"You bastard," Grovlev growled.
"Yes," said Dogin, "I am that. A bastard who will get the job done." The Interior Minister looked at his watch, then walked over to Grovlev and stared down into his narrow eyes. "I must leave now, Minister. I have a meeting with the new President. There are congratulations to tender, some papers for him to sign. But within twelve hours, you'll be able to judge for yourself whether I'm working for vanity, or" — he pointed to the flag on the monitor— "for this."
With a nod to the silent assembly, Minister Dogin left the office. His aide in tow, he hurried to a car that would take him to Zhanin and then back here. And alone, with the door closed, he would place the call that would set events in motion that would change the world.
CHAPTER TWO
Keith Fields-Hutton burst into his room in the newly renovated Rossiya Hotel, tossed his key on the dresser, and ran into the bathroom. On the way, he stooped and grabbed two curled pieces of fax paper that had fallen from the dresser-top machine he'd brought with him.
This was the part of his job he hated the most. Not the danger, which was at times considerable; not the protracted hours of sitting in airports waiting for Aeroflot flights that never came, which was typical; and not the long weeks of being away from Peggy, which were most frustrating of all.
What he hated most were all those goddamn cups of tea he had to drink.
When he came to Moscow once a month, Fields-Hutton always stayed at the Rossiya, just east of the Kremlin, and took long breakfasts in their elegant café. It gave him time to read the newspapers from front to back. More importantly, constantly draining his teacup gave Andrei, the waiter, a reason to come over with refills and three, four, or sometimes five fresh tea bags. Attached to the string of every bag was a label that bore the name Chashka Chai on the outside. Inside each tag was a circular spot of microfilm which Fields-Hutton pocketed when no one was looking. Most of the time, the maître d' was looking, so Fields-Hutton had to recover the film when other patrons came into the restaurant, distracting him.