Beria simply walked over to the door and pounded on it. A moment later, a muffled voice said something she couldn’t quite make out.
Then Beria’s hand burst into flame, just as Maggie’s mind suddenly awakened to its full potential, and she could see the threads of fear, desire, and confidence coming off Beria.
“I am trusting you, Maggie Dubinsky, because I believe in you. And because I really don’t want to hurt you. I want to offer you something the Americans wouldn’t dream of giving you.”
Finally. “All right,” she said, staring at Beria’s flaming hand as he slowly moved it around in front of him. “I’m listening.”
8
“What the hell do you mean, ‘We lost one’?”
President Eisenhower glared at his CIA director and Air Force Chief of Staff as only a five-star general could, a look that mixed worry and disciplined rage in equal measure. Vandenberg thought his days of suffering such stares were over, but then, they’d never lost a MAJESTIC-12 agent like this before. Even in Syria, they’d had a trail to pick up, and Wallace had turned a near catastrophe into a successful rescue and intelligence coup.
Maybe Wallace — who had finally arrived in Moscow last night and reported in — could pull another rabbit from the hat. If not, Vandenberg figured he’d be out of a job in short order. Honestly, the thought of spending more time on the golf course seemed pretty good right about now, despite the growing pains and aches he suffered with age.
“We’re working to figure out where she’s been taken,” Allen Dulles replied, suitably chagrined yet still meeting the President’s gaze. “Sorensen’s infiltrated the MGB and NKVD several times to try to find records that could help, even as they plan the next operation.”
Eisenhower threw his briefing folder onto the mahogany Theodore Roosevelt desk with disgust. “And of course, you lose the one the psych boys are worried about the most. The one who just might listen to Beria and whatever cockamamie Übermensch fantasy he’s working on.”
Dulles and Vandenberg traded a look. “We do have a contingency in place, Mr. President,” Vandenberg said. “It’s a risk, but it could be a real win if it pans out.”
“Yeah, I read about it. It’s more than just a risk. And if it doesn’t pan out, it’s a catastrophe for this entire plan of yours,” Eisenhower said. “What if she turns? She’s the most powerful Variant we have. Paralyze a room in fear, create a riot with a thought — and now the Reds have her. I’m not convinced there’s anything to do other than a full sanction.”
Full sanction. For such a new president, Eisenhower certainly had the clinical lingo down pat. His position was clear: he would rather have Margaret Dubinsky dead than in the hands of the Soviets.
“The problem is, we can’t locate her. Soon as we do, we’ll work on a rescue plan. If that doesn’t work, our people know to exercise that option,” Dulles said assuredly.
“They’d better. Meantime, Allen, if this scheme to get the Soviets to turn on Beria doesn’t work, I want you to come up with a new plan to ensure his tenure as Premier is short,” the President said.
“Sir?” Dulles asked, before shooting Vandenberg another look.
Eisenhower just stared, and the message was clear. Reach into the bag of dirty tricks for the dirtiest, trickiest plan of all — the elimination of a Soviet Premier. To the President’s credit, he at least looked pained at the prospect.
“Let’s give the MAJESTIC team a little more time,” Vandenberg said. “Allen can work up the contingency op, but the latest from Beam and the Moscow station chief is that the Russians are still running things by committee — Malenkov on top, Beria right behind, and Molotov rounding it out.”
“There’s also a new Central Committee,” Dulles added. “It looks like Nikita Khrushchev is consolidating power in the Party while Malenkov, Beria, and Molotov duke it out in government.”
“Which weakens Malenkov and gives Beria an opening,” Eisenhower countered. “Beria owns the secret police. How long before Malenkov or Khrushchev gets that knock on the door in the middle of the night?”
“He’s not ready yet, Mr. President,” Dulles countered. “Beria just took over the secret police again. It’ll be months before he’s in full control. Until then, the apparatchiks still hold the cards, and they’ll get word to the other contenders if Beria tries to pull any funny business before he’s consolidated his power.”
“Which is why it’s critical for Wallace and our people to get in there and create headaches for him as soon as possible,” Vandenberg added. “If Malenkov or Khrushchev see him having problems, it’ll be easier to freeze him out.”
Eisenhower sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “There’s always a chance Beria could just unleash his Variants. Blow it all up at once.”
“It’s possible, but it immediately creates too many enemies for him to handle,” Dulles said. “We think there are some higher-ups in the Red Army who know about Beria’s program. If they’re smart — and we have no reason to think otherwise — they already have some contingencies in place. Nobody wants a country run by Beria and his supermen.”
The President sighed and seemed to weigh everything in his mind for several long moments. “All right. We’re committed at this point. Give Wallace the green light to begin operations. I want Beria hit hard, from every side, just so long as nobody figures out it’s us. If they can find Miss Dubinsky, so much the better, but as of right now, getting her back is secondary to getting Beria out of the picture.”
Wallace won’t like that, Vandenberg thought. The Navy man had spent the war in intelligence analysis, and had become Roscoe Hillenkoetter’s golden boy when the latter took over CIA and the MAJESTIC-12 program. Vandenberg thought Wallace was a little too independent-minded for his own good, and didn’t spend nearly enough time cultivating allies in the Pentagon or CIA to keep his program secured. And given what Vandenberg’s doctors were telling him, the Air Force general wasn’t going to be around too much longer to give MAJESTIC-12 the cover it needed.
Vandenberg just hoped Wallace delivered for the President, no matter how closely he followed orders.
9
It was an unusually warm night in Moscow, which meant that it was actually above freezing, and the breeze was keeping most of the smoke and smog well above ground level. The Russians were embracing these first signs of spring, walking through Red Square at a leisurely pace and enjoying the sights and sounds. A small band played traditional music in one corner, and several carts offered steaming cups of tea from battered samovars. Most of these Russians were among the nation’s elites — government workers, midlevel military officers, minor Party functionaries, factory foremen and the like. A few less-fortunate citizens mingled with the rest, mostly cutting through the square to get wherever they needed to be, whether it was work or home. The luxury of a stroll on a clear night with a cup of tea wasn’t theirs to have, despite living in a worker’s paradise. A few of these souls, clad in the woolen coats and trousers of the proletariat, were noticeably drunk. Most everyone else paid these unfortunates little mind.
That suited Danny Wallace just fine. He pulled a small bottle out of his coat pocket and gave it a long pull. The label said Stolichnaya, but the contents were simply water. Admittedly, he’d always had a taste for Russian vodka, but tonight wasn’t the night. He replaced the bottle in his coat and picked up the broom and long-handled dustpan from where they leaned against the side of a garbage bin before continuing his slow, leisurely patrol of Red Square, on the hunt for cigarette butts and candy wrappers.